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Published under special arrangement with 
The Macmillan Company 

Copyright, 1917 
By P. F. Cottier & Son 




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I. By Emite Metcuior, VicomTE DE VoGuUE . . ._ Vii 

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born at Moscow on October 30, 1821, the son of a 

military surgeon. He was educated in his native city 
and at the School of Military Engineering at St. Petersburg; 
from which he graduated in 1843 with the grade of sub- 
lieutenant. The attraction of literature led him to give up 
the career that lay open to him, and he entered instead upon 
a long struggle with poverty. 

His first book, “Poor Folks” (1846), though obviously 
influenced by Gogol, was recognized by the critics as the 
work of an original genius, and he became a regular contrib- 
utor to a monthly magazine, “Annals of the Country.” He 
is said to have undertaken ten new novels at once, and was 
certainly working at a terrific pace when a sudden halt was 
called. He had joined the circle of a political agitator, 
Petrachevski, and had been taking part in its rather harm- 
less discussions on political economy, when the suspicions of 
the police were aroused and he, with his brother and thirty 
comrades, was arrested in April 1849, and thrown into 
the fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul in St. Petersburg, 
where he wrote his story, “A Little Hero.” On December 
22d, he and twenty-one others were conducted to the foot 
of a scaffold in the Simonovsky Square, and told to pre- 
pare for death. But before the sentence was executed, as 
they stood in their shirts in the bitter December weather, 
it was announced that their penalty was commuted to exile 
in Siberia. On Christmas Eve he started on his journey, 
and the next four years were spent among convicts in 
a prison at Omsk. He has described his experiences there 
in his “Memories of the House of the Dead” (1853)— 
experiences which, though frightful in the extreme, seem to 
have strengthened rather than injured him in body and 

mind, though they may have embittered his temper. His 



imprisonment was followed by three years of compulsory 
military service, during the last of which he became an 
under-officer, and married a widow, Madame Isaiev. He 
now resumed his literary career, publishing “The Injured 
and the Insulted” in 1860. In 1862 he visited western 
Europe, but seems to have made little use of his oppor- 
tunities to study the civilization or national character of 
other peoples. He was a confirmed gambler, and his con- 
duct at times reduced his wife and himself to an almost 
desperate situation. She died in 1863, and in the follow- 
ing year he lost his brother Michael, who had shared with 
him the management of a periodical. Left alone, he was 
unable to conduct the business affairs connected with it, 
and only the success of “Crime and Punishment” in 1866 
rescued him from ruin. He had now reached the height 
of his powers, and the novels written after this period 
are generally regarded as showing an increasing lack of 
the proportion and restraint which had never been his to 
any great degree. The most important ot the later works 
are “The Idiot” (1869), “The Possessed” (1873), “The 
Adult” (1875), and “The Brothers Karamazov” (1881). 
He married as his second wife, his stenographer, Anna 
Grigorevna Svitkine, a girl who, though not highly educated, 
was capable and devoted; and through her energy his last 
years were passed in comfort and comparative prosperity. 
He issued periodically “An Author’s Note-Book” to which 
he contributed an amount of autobiographical matter, and 
through this and other writings in magazines he exercised 
a good deal of influence. He came finally to have a very 
high position in the popular regard, and his death in 
February, 1881, brought forth an expression of public 
feeling such as St. Petersburg had seldom seen. 

Though Dostoevsky did not regard himself as a martyr 
in his Siberian exile, and, indeed, even seems to have 
regarded the suffering of that time in the light of expia- 
tion—though of what crime it is hard for a non-Russian 
to see—he bore the marks of the experience through the 
rest of his life. His face looked aged and sorrow-stricken, 
and he became bitter, silent, and suspicious, He was sub- 
ject to epilepsy, and had strange hallucinations. Probably 


as a consequence of his long association with criminals, 
he had an intense interest in abnormal and perverted types, 
the psychology of which he analysed with an uncanny 
subtlety. His books form a striking contrast to those of 
Turgenev in point of art, for they are diffuse, often poorly 
constructed and incoherent, and without charm of style. 
But in spite of these limitations, his power of rousing 
emotion, the grim intensity of his conceptions, and his 
command of the sources of fear and pity make him a very 
great writer. 

“Crime and Punishment” is his acknowledged masterpiece, 
and it displays some of his most characteristic ideas. Chief 
among them is that of expiation. The crime of Raskolnikov 
is not so much repented of as it is regarded as being 
canceled by voluntary submission to Siberian exile. Sonia, 
the pathetic girl of the streets through whom the hero 
learns the lesson of purification, represents the humility and 
devotion which are to Dostoevsky the saving virtues which 
are one day to save Russia. The most striking feature of 
the book to the Western reader, to whom the spiritual 
teaching is apt to seem strange and at times even perverse, 
is to be found in the analytical account of the states of 
mind of the half-crazed criminal, who cannot keep away 
from the very officials who were trying to get on his track, 
and who cannot refrain from discussing the crime he is 
trying to hide: As a study in morbid psychology, “Crime 
and Punishment” is one of the most amazingly convincing 
and terrifying books in all literature. 

W. A. N. 


By Emite MeEtcHior, VICOMTE DE VoGUE 

Mot subject is very simple. A man conceives the idea 
of committing a crime; he matures it, commits the 
deed, defends himself for some time from being 

arrested, and finally gives himself up to the expiation of it. 

For once, this Russian artist has adopted the European 

idea of unity of action; the drama, purely psychological, is 

made up of the combat between the man and his own pro- 
ject. The accessory characters and facts are of no conse- 
quence, except in regard to this influence upon the 
criminal’s plans. The first part, in which are described the 
birth and growth of the criminal idea, is written with con- 
summate skill and a truth and subtlety of analysis beyond 
all praise. The student Raskolnikov, a nihilist in the true 
sense of the word, intelligent, unprincipled, unscrupulous, 
reduced to extreme poverty, dreams of a happier condition. 

On returning home from going to pawn a jewel at an old 

pawnbroker’s shop, this vague thought crosses his brain 

without his attaching much importance to it: 

“An intelligent man who had that old woman’s money 
could accomplish anything he liked; it is only necessary to 
get rid of the useless, hateful old hag.” 

This was but one of those fleeting thoughts which cross 
the brain like a nightmare, and which only assume a dis- 
tinct form through the assent of the will. This idea 
becomes fixed in the man’s brain, growing and increasing 
on every page, until he is perfectly possessed by it. Every 
hard experience of his outward life appears to him to 
bear some relation to his project; and by a mysterious power 
of reasoning, to work into his plan and urge him on to the 
crime. The influence exercised upon this man is brought 



out into such distinct relief that it seems to us itself 
like a living actor in the drama, guiding the criminal’s 
hand to the murderous weapon. The horrible deed is 
accomplished; and the unfortunate man wrestles with the 
recollection of it as he did with the original design. The 
relations of the world to the murderer are all changed, 
through the irreparable fact of his having suppressed a 
human life. Everything takes on a new physiognomy, and 
a new meaning to him, excluding from him the possibility # 
of feeling and reasoning like other people, or of finding 
his own place in life. His whole soul is metamorphosed 
and in constant discord with the life around him. This 
is not remorse in the true sense of the word. Dostoevsky 
exerts himself to distinguish and explain the difference. His 
hero will feel no remorse until the day of expiation; but 
it is a complex and perverse feeling which possesses him; 
the vexation at having derived no satisfaction from an 
act so successfully carried out; the revolting against the 
unexpected moral consequences of that act; the shame of 
finding himself so weak and helpless; for the foundation 

/ of Raskolnikov’s character is pride. Only one single 

interest in life is left to him: to deceive and elude the 
police. He seeks their company, their friendship, by an 
attraction analogous to that which draws us to the extreme 
edge of a dizzy precipice; the murderer keeps up intermi- 
nable interviews with his friends at the police office, and 
even leads on the conversation to that point, when a single 
word would betray him; every moment we fear he will 
utter the word; but he escapes and continues the terrible 
game as if it were a pleasure. 

The magistrate Porphyre has guessed the student’s secret; 
he plays with him like a tiger with its prey, sure of his 
game. Then Raskolnikov knows he is discovered; and 
through several chapters a long fantastic dialogue is kept 
up between the two adversaries; a double dialogue, that of 
the lips, which smile and wilfully ignore; and that of the 
eyes which know and betray all. At last when the author 
has tortured us sufficiently in this way, he introduces the 
salutary influence which is to break down the culprit’s pride 
and reconcile him to the expiation of his crime. Raskolnikov 


loves a poor street-walker. The author’s clairvoyance 
divines that even the sentiment of love was destined in 
him to be modified like every other, to be changed into 
a dull despair. 

Sonia is a humble creature, who has sold herself to 
escape starvation, and is almost unconscious of her dis- 
honor, enduring it as a malady she cannot prevent. She 
wears her ignominy as a cross, with pious resignation. She 
is attached to the only man who has not treated her with 
contempt; she sees that he is tortured by some secret, and 
tries to draw it from him. After a long struggle the 
avowal is made, but not in words. In a mute interview 
which is tragic in the extreme, Sonia reads the terrible 
truth in her friend’s eyes. The poor girl is stunned for a 
moment, but recovers herself quickly. She knows the 
remedy; her stricken heart cries out: 

“We must suffer, and suffer together; . . . we must pray 
and atone; ... let us go to prison! .. .” 

Thus are we led back to Dostoevsky’s favorite idea, to 
the Russian’s fundamental conception of Christianity: the 
efficacy of atonement, of suffering, and its being the only 
solution of all difficulties. 

To express the singular relations between these two 
beings, that solemn pathetic bond, so foreign to every 
preconceived idea of love, we should make use of the 
word compassion in the sense in which Bossuet used it: 
the suffering with and through another being. When 
Raskolnikov falls at the feet of the girl who supports her 
parents by her shame, she, the despised of all, is terrified 
at his self-abasement, and begs him to rise. He then 
utters a phrase which expresses the combination of all the 
books we are studying: “It is not only before thee that I 
prostrate myself, but before all suffering humanity.” Let 
us here observe that our author has never yet once 
succeeded in representing love in any form apart from these 
subtleties, or the simple natural attraction of two hearts 
toward each other. He portrays only extreme cases; 
either that mystic state of sympathy and self-sacrifice for 
a distressed fellow-creature, of utter devotion, apart from 
any selfish desire; or the mad, bestial cruelty of a perverted 

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nature. The lovers he represents are not made of flesh 
and blood, but of nerves and tears. Yet this realist evokes 
only harrowing thoughts, never disagreeable images. I 
defy any one to quote a single line suggestive of anything 
sensual, or a single instance where the woman is represented 
in the light of a temptress. His love scenes are absolutely 
chaste, and yet he seems to be incapable of portraying 
any creation between an angel and a_ beast.—From 
“Dostoevsky” in “The Russian Novelists,” translated by | 
J. L. Edmands (1887). : 


ASKOLNIKOV, the student who claims the right to 
murder and steal by virtue of his ill-applied scientific 
theories, is not a figure the invention of which can 

be claimed by the Russian novelist. It is probable that 
before or after reading the works of Victor Hugo, 
Dostoevsky had perused those of Bulwer Lytton. Eugene 
Aram, the English novelist’s hero, is a criminal of a very 
different order, and of a superior species. When he commits 
his crime, he not only thinks, like Raskolnikov, of a rapid 
means of attaining fortune, but also, and more nobly, of a 
great and solemn sacrifice to science, of which he feels 
himself to be the high priest. Like Raskolnikov, he draws 
no benefit from his booty. Like him, too, he hides it, and 
like him, he is pursued, not by remorse, but by regret— 
haunted by the painful thought that men now have the 
advantage over him, and that he no longer stands above 
their curiosity and their spite—tortured by his conscious- 
ness of the total change in his relations with the world. 
In both cases, the subject and the story, save for the 
voluntary expiation at the close, appear identical in their 
essential lines. This feature stands apart. Yet, properly 
speaking, it does not belong to Dostoevsky. In Turgenev’s 
“The Tavern” (Postoialyi Dvor), the peasant Akime, 
whom his wife has driven into crime, punishes himself by 
going out to beg, in all gentleness and humble submission. 


Some students, indeed, have chosen to transform both sub- 
ject and character, and have looked on Raskolnikov as a 
political criminal, disguised after the same fashion as 
Dostoevsky himself may have been, in his “Memories of 
the House of the Dead.” But this version appears to me 
to arise out of another error. A few days before the book 
appeared, a crime almost identical with that related in it, 
and committed under the apparent influence of Nihilist 
teaching, though without any mixture of the political ele- 
ment, took place at St. Petersburg. These doctrines, as 
personified by Turgenev in Bazarov, are, in fact, general 
in their scope. They contain the germs of every order 
of criminal attempt, whether public or private; and 
Dostoevsky’s great merit lies in the fact that he has dem- 
onstrated the likelihood that the development of this germ 
in one solitary intelligence may foster a social malady. In 
the domain of social psychology and pathology, the great 
novelist owes nothing to anybody; and his powers in this 
direction suffice to compensate for such imperfections as 
I shall have to indicate in his work. 

The “first cause” in this book, psychologically speaking, 
is that individualism which the Slavophil School has 
chosen to erect into a principle of the national life—an 
unbounded selfishness, in other words, which, when crossed 
by circumstances, takes refuge in violent and monstrous 
reaction. And indeed, Raskolnikov, like Bazarov, is so full 
of contradictions, some of them grossly improbable, that 
one is almost driven to inquire whether the author has 
not intended to depict a condition of madness. We see this 
selfish being spending his last coins to bury Marmeladov, 
a drunkard picked up in the street, whom he had seen for 
the first time in his life only a few hours previously. 
From this point of view Eugene Aram has more psycho- 
logical consistency, and a great deal more moral dignity. 
Raskolnikov is nothing but a poor half-crazed creature, soft 
in temperament, confused in intellect, who carries about 
a big idea in a head that is too small to hold it: He 
becomes aware of this after he has committed his crime, 
when he is haunted by hallucinations and wild terrors, which 
convince him that his pretension to rank as a man of power 


was nothing but a dream. Then the ruling idea which 
has lured him to murder and to theft gives place to 
another—that of confessing his crime. And even here his 
courage and frankness fail him; he cannot run a straight 
course, and, after wandering round and round the police 
station, he carries his confession to Sonia. 

This figure of Sonia is a very ordinary Russian type, 
and strangely chosen for the purpose of teaching Raskol- 
nikov the virtue of expiation. She is a woman of the town, 
chaste in mind though not in deed, and is redeemed by 
one really original feature, her absolute humility. It may 
be inquired whether this element of moral redemption, in 
so far as it differs from those which so constantly occur 
to the imagination of the author of “Manon Lescaut,’ and 
to that of all Dostoevsky’s literary forerunners, is more 
truthful than the rest, and whether it must not be admitted 
that certain moral, like certain physical conditions, necessarily 
result in an organic and quite incurable deformation of 
character. Sonia is like an angel who rolls in the gutter 
every night and whitens her wings each morning by 
perusing the Holy Gospels. We may just as well fancy that 
a coal-heaver could straighten the back bowed by the 
weight of countless sacks of charcoal by practising Swedish 
gymnastics ! 

The author’s power of evocation, and his gift for analys- 
ing feeling, and the impressions which produce it, are very 
great, and the effects of terror and compassion he obtains 
cannot be denied. Yet, whether from the artistic or from 
the scientific point of view (since some of his admirers 
insist on this last), his method is open to numerous objec- 
tions. It consists in reproducing, or very nearly, the con- 
ditions of ordinary life whereby we gain acquaintance with 
a particular character. Therefore, without taking the 
trouble of telling us who Raskolnikov is, and in what his 
qualities consist, the story relates a thousand little incidents 
out of which the personal individuality of the hero is 
gradually evolved. And as these incidents do not neces- 
sarily present themselves, in real life, in any logical sequence, 
beginning with the most instructive of the series, the 
novelist does not attempt to follow any such course. As 


early as on the second page of the book, we learn that 
Raskolnikov is making up his mind to murder an old 
woman who lends out money, and it is only at the close 
of the volume that we become aware of the additional fact 
that he has published a review article, in which he has 
endeavoured to set forth a theory justifying this hideous 
design.—From “A History of Russian Literature” (1900). 


f bee novels of Dostoevsky may seem to discover a 

very strange world to us, in which people talk 

and act like no one that we have ever met. Yet we 
do not read them because we want to hear about these 
strange Russian people, so unlike ourselves. Rather we 
read them because they remind us of what we had for- 
gotten about ourselves, as a scent may suddenly remind 
us of some place or scene not remembered since childhood. 
And as we have no doubt about the truth of the memories 
recalled by a scent, so we have none about Dostoevsky’s 

It is strange, like those memories of childhood, but 
only because it has been so long sleeping in our minds. 
He has no need to prove it, and he never tries to do so; 
he only presents it for our recognition; and we recognize 
it at once, however contrary it may be to all that we are 
accustomed to believe about ourselves. 

The strangeness of Dostoevsky’s novels lies in his method, 
which is unlike that of other novelists because his interest 
is different from theirs. The novel of pure plot is all con- 
cerned with success or failure. The hero has some definite 
task to perform, and we read to discover whether he suc- 
ceeds in performing it. But even in novels where 
character is more considered it is still the interest of failure 
and success which usually makes the plot. The hero, for 
instance, falls in love and the plot forms round this love 
interest; or he is married, and there is a suspense about 
his happiness or unhappiness. But in the greatest of 
Dostoevsky’s books, such as “The Brothers Karamazov” or 


“The Idiot,” the interest is not even in the happiness or 
unhappiness of the hero; for to Dostoevsky happiness and 
unhappiness seem to be external things, and he is not con- 
cerned even with this kind of failure or success. He has 
such a firm belief in the existence of the soul, and with 
it a faith so strong in the order of the universe, that he 
applies no final tests whatever to his life. Plot with most 
novelists is an effort to make life seem more conclusive 
than it really is; and that is one of the reasons why we_ 
like a firm plot in a novel. With its tests and judgments 
and results it produces an illusion of certainty agreeable to 
our weakness of faith. But Dostoevsky needs no illusion 
of certainty, and gives none. He had a faith independent 
of happiness and even of the state of his own soul. Life 
indeed had poured unhappiness upon him, so that he knew 
the worst of it from his own experience; yet we can tell 
from his books that he knew also a peace of thought com- 
pared with which all his own miseries were unreal to him. 
In that he differs from Tolstoy, who saw this peace of 
thought in the distance and could not reach it. Tolstoy. 
therefore conceived of life as an inevitable discord between 
will and conviction, and tried to impose the impossible on 
mankind as he tried to impose it upon himself, judging them 
with the severity of his’ self-judgments. His books are 
full of his own pursuit of certainty and his own half- 
failure and half-success. He still makes happiness the 
test, even though he feels that the noblest of men cannot 
attain to it; for his own happiness was caused by the con- 
flict in his mind between will and conviction. But in 
Dostoevsky this conflict had ceased. He was not happy, 
but he was not torn by the desire for happiness; nor 
did he test his own soul or the souls of others by their 
happiness or unhappiness. His faith in the soul was so great 
that he saw it independent of circumstance, and almost inde- 
pendent of its own manifestation in action. For in these 
manifestations there is always the alloy of circumstance, or 
the passions of the flesh, or of good or evil fortune; and he 
tried to see the soul free of this. He did not judge men by 
their diversities which outward things seemed to impose on 
them. For him the soul itself was more real than all these 


diversities, and they only interested him for their power 
of revealing or obscuring it. Therefore his object in his 
novels is to reveal the soul, not to pass any judgments upon 
men, nor to tell us how they fare in this world; and this 
object makes his peculiar method. He does not try to show 
us souls free from their bodies or free from circumstance, 
for to do that would be contrary to his own experience and 
his own faith. Rather he shows them tormented and mis- 
translated, even to themselves, but in such a way that we 
see the reality beyond the torments and the mistranslations. 
His characters drift together and fall into long wayward 
conversations that have nothing to do with any events in 
the book. They quarrel about nothing; they have no sense 
of shame; they behave intolerably, so that we know that 
we should hate them in real life. But, as we read, we do 
not hate them, for we recognize ourselves—not indeed in 
their words and behavior, but in what they reveal through 
them. They have an extraordinary frankness which may be 
in the Russian character but which is also part of 
Dostoevsky’s method, for the characters of other Russian 
novelists are not so frank as his. He makes them talk and 
act so as to reveal themselves, and for no other purpose 
whatever. And yet they always reveal themselves uncon- 
sciously, and their frankness, though surprising, is not 

But we, accustomed to novels concerned with failure 
and success, with plots formed upon that concern, are 
bewildered by Dostoevsky’s method; and even he is a little 
bewildered by it. He never quite learned how to tell his 
own kind of story—a story in which all outward events 
are subordinate to the changes and manifestations of the 
soul. Even in “The Brothers Karamazov” there is a plot, 
made out of the murder of old Karamazov, which seems 
to be imposed upon the real interest of the book as the 
unintelligible plot of “Little Dorrit” is imposed upon the 
real interest of that masterpiece. And in “The Idiot” events 
are so causeless and have so little effect that we cannot 
remember them. The best plan is not to try to remember 
them, for they matter very little. The book is about the 
souls of men and women, and where the construction is 


clumsy it is only because Dostoevsky is impatient to tell 
us what he has to tell. 

Those who believe that the soul is only an illusion— 
and there are many who believe this without knowing it 
—will be surprised to find how much truth Dostoevsky has 
discovered through his error. Whether his faith was right 
or wrong, it certainly served him well as a novelist, and 
so did his experience. No modern writer has been so well 
acquainted with evil and misery as he was. Other novelists 
write about them as moving exceptions in life; he wrote 
about them, because in his experience they were the rule. 
Other novelists have a quarrel with life or with society, 
or with particular institutions; but he has no quarrel with 
anything. There is neither hatred in him, nor righteous 
indignation, nor despair. He had suffered from govern- 
ment as much as any man in the world, yet he never saw 
it as a hideous abstraction, and its crimes and errors 
were for him only the crimes and errors of men like 

We hate men when they seem no longer men to us, when 
we see nothing in them but tendencies which we abhor; 
and a novelist who expresses his hatred of tendencies in 
his characters deprives them of life and makes them unin- 
teresting to all except those who share his hatred. Even 
Tolstoy makes some of his characters lifeless through 
hatred; but Dostoevsky hates no one, for behind every 
tendency he looks for the soul, and the tendency only 
interests him because of the soul that is concealed or 
betrayed by it. Thus his wicked people, and they abound, 
are never introduced into his books either to gratify his 
hatred of them or to make a plot with their wickedness. 
He is as much concerned with their souls as with the 
souls of his saints, Alyosha and Prince Myshkin. Iago 
seems to be drawn from life, but only from external 
observation. We never feel that Shakespeare has been 
Iago himself, or has deduced him from possibilities in him- 
self. But Dostoevsky’s worst characters are like Hamlet. 
He knows things about them that he could only know about 
himself, and they live through his sympathy, not merely 
through his observation. He makes no division of men into 


sheep and goats—not even that subtle division, common 
in the best novels, by which the sheep are more real than 
the goats. For him all men have more likeness to each 
other than unlikeness, for they all have souls; and because 
he is always aware of the soul in them he has a Christian 
sense of their equality. It is not merely rich and poor or 
clever or stupid that are equal to him, but even good and 
bad. He treats the drunkard Lebedyev with respect and, 
though his books contain other characters as absurd as any 
in Dickens, he does not introduce them, like Dickens, to 
make fun of them, but only because he is interested in 
the manner in which their absurdities mistranslate them. 
Nor is the soul made different for him by sex, for that 
is only a difference of the body; and so he does not insist 
on femininity in his women. He knows women, but he 
knows them as human beings like men; and he is interested 
in sexual facts not as they affect his own passions but 
as they affect the soul. He, like his hero, Myshkin, was 
an epileptic, and what he tells us of Myshkin’s attitude 
towards women may have been true of himself. But if 
that is so, his own lack of appetite, like the deafness of 
Beethoven, made his art more profound and spiritual. He 
makes no appeal to the passions of his readers, as Beethoven 
in his later works makes none to the mere sense of sound. 

Indeed, he was an artist purified by suffering as saints 
are purified by it; for through it he attained to that com- 
plete disinterestedness which is as necessary to the artist 
as to the saint. Whenever a man sees people and things 
in relation only to his own personal wants and appetites 
he cannot use them as subject matter for art. Dostoevsky 
learnt to free everything and everybody from this relation 
more completely, perhaps, than any writer known to us. 
Not even vanity or fear, nor any theory begotten of them, 
perverted his view of human life. In his art at any rate 
he achieved that complete liberation which is aimed at by 
the wisdom of the East; and his heroes exhibit that libera- 
tion in their conduct. Myshkin would be a man of no 
account in our world, but Christ might have chosen him 
for one of His Apostles. Any Western novelist, drawing 
such a character, would have made him unreal by insisting 


upon his goodness and by displaying it only in external © 
actions, as saints in most European pictures are to be 
recognized only by a halo and a look of silly sanctity. We 
fail with such characters because we should not recognize 
them if we met them in real life, and because we do not 
even want to be like them ourselves. They represent an 
ideal imposed on us long ago from the East, and now only 
faintly and conventionally remembered. We test every- 
body by some kind of success in this life, even if it be 
only the success of a just self-satisfaction. But Myshkin 
has not even that. He is unconscious of his own goodness, 
and even of the badness of other men. People who meet 
him are impatient with him and call him “the idiot,” 
because he seems to be purposeless and defenceless. But 
we do not feel that the novelist has afflicted them with 
incredible blindness, for we know, as we read, that we too 
should call Myshkin an idiot if we met him. Indeed, his 
understanding has never been trained by competition or 
defence; but that is the reason why now and then it sur- 
prises every one by its profundity. For he understands 
men’s minds just because, like Dostoevsky himself, he does 
not see them in relation to his own wants, and because his 
disinterestedness makes them put off all disguise before 

“Dear Prince,” some one says to him, “it’s not easy to 
reach Paradise on earth; but you reckon on finding it. 
Paradise is a difficult matter, Prince—much more difficult 
than it seems to your good heart.” But Myshkin’s heart is 
not good because it cherishes illusions. He does not expect 
to find Paradise on earth, and he does not like people 
because he thinks them better than they are. Seeing very 
clearly what they are, he likes even the worst of them in 
spite of it; and to read Dostoevsky’s books throws us for 
the time into Myshkin’s state of mind. When we are con- 
fronted with some fearful wickedness, even when we read 
about it in the newspapers, it shakes our faith in life and 
makes it seem like a nightmare in which ordinary com- 
fortable reality has suddenly turned into an inexplicable 
horror. But in Dostoevsky’s books the horror of the night- 
mare suddenly turns to a happy familiar beauty. He shows 


us wickedness worse than any we had ever imagined, 
wickedness which if we met with it in real life, would 
make us believe in human monsters without souls; and 
then, like a melody rising through the discord of madness, 
be shows us the soul, just like our own behind that wicked- 
ness. And we believe in the one as we have believed in 
the other; for we feel that a man is telling us about life 
who has ceased to fear it, and that his faith, tested by all 
the suffering which he reveals in his books, is something 
more to be trusted than our own experience.—From the 
London “Times” (1913). 

By Maurice BAarInGc 

N 1866 came “Crime and Punishment,” which brought 
: Dostoevsky fame. This book, Dostoevsky’s “Macbeth,” 

is so well known in the French and English transla- 
tions that it hardly needs any comment. Dostoevsky never 
wrote anything more tremendous than the portrayal of 
the anguish that seethes in the soul of Raskolnikov, after 
he has killed the old woman, “mechanically forced,” as 
Professor Briickner says, “into performing the act, as if 
he had gone too near machinery in motion, had been caught 
by a bit of his clothing and cut to pieces.” And not only 
is one held spellbound by every shifting hope, fear, and 
doubt, and each new pang that Raskolnikov experiences, 
but the souls of all the subsidiary characters in the book 
are revealed to us just as clearly; the Marmeladov family, 
the honest Razumihin, the police inspector, and the atmos- 
phere of the submerged tenth in St. Petersburg—the 
steaming smell of the city in the summer. There is an 
episode when Raskolnikov kneels before Sonia, the prosti- 
tute, and says to her: “It is not before you I am kneeling, 
but before ail the suffering of mankind.” That is what 
Dostoevsky does himself in this and in all his books; but 
in none of them is the suffering of all mankind conjured 
up before us in more living colours, and in none of them 
is his act of homage in kneeling before it more impressive, 
—From “An Outline of Russian Literature” (1914). 


Ropion RomaAnovitcu RASKOLNIKov, a student. 
AvpotyA RoMANovna (Dovunta), his sister. 
Deitri ProxoritcH Razuminin, his friend. 
Praskovya Paviovna, his landlady. 

Nastasya Perrovna, her maid-servant. 

Atyona IvANovna, an old woman, a pawnbroker. 
LizaveTa, her half-sister. 


KATERINA Ivanovna, his wife. 

Her three little children. 

Sonta SEMyonovna, Marmeladov’s daughter. 

AMALIA IvANovNna LIPPEVECHSEL, his landlady. 

Pyotr PretrovitcH LuzuHIn, suitor for Dounia. 
Marra Petrovna, his wife. 

Nixopim FomitTcu, superintendent of the district, 

of the St. 
ZAMETOV, head clerk, 
' Petersburg 
Inya PetrovitcHu, assistant clerk, 4 
: police. 
PorFiry PEtTROvITCH, detective, ] 

ZOSSIMOV, a young physician. 








man came out of the garret in which he lodged in S. 
Place and walked slowly, as though in hesitation, to- 
wards K. bridge. 

He had successfully avoided meeting his landlady on the 
staircase. His garret was under the roof of a high, five- 
storied house, and was more like a cupboard than a room. 
The landlady, who provided him with garret, dinners, and 
attendance, lived on the floor below, and every time he went 
out he was obliged to pass her kitchen, the door of which 
invariably stood open. And each time he passed, the young 
man had a sick, frightened feeling, which made him scowl 
and feel ashamed. He was hopelessly in debt to his land- 
lady, and was afraid of meeting her. 

This was not because he was cowardly and abject, quite 
the contrary; but for some time past he had been in an over- 
strained, irritable condition, verging on hypochondria. He 
had become so completely absorbed in himself, and isolated 
from his fellows that he dreaded meeting, not only his land- 
lady, but any one at all. He was crushed by poverty, but 
the anxieties of his position had of late ceased to weigh upon 
him. He had given up attending to matters of practical im- 
portance; he had lost all desire to do so. Nothing that any 
landlady could do had a real terror for him. But to be 
stopped on the stairs, to be forced to listen to her trivial, 


(): an exceptionally hot evening early in July a young 


irrelevant gossip, to pestering demands for payment, threats 
and complaints, and to rack his brains for excuses, to pre- 
varicate, to lie—no, rather than that, he would creep down 
the stairs like a cat and slip out unseen. 

This evening, however, on coming out into the street, he 
became acutely aware of his fears. 

“T want to attempt a thing like that and am frightened by 
these trifles,’” he thought, with an odd smile. “Hm... 
yes, all is in a man’s hands and he lets it all slip from coward- 
ice, that’s an axiom. It would be interesting to know what 
it is men are most afraid of. Taking a new step, uttering a 
new word is what they fear most. ... But I am talking too 
much. It’s because I chatter that I do nothing. Or per- 
haps it is that I chatter because I do nothing. I’ve learned 
to chatter this last month, lying for days together in my den 
thinking ...of Jack the Giant-killer. Why am I going 
there now? Am I capable of that? Is that serious? It is 
not serious at all. It’s simply a fantasy to amuse myself; a 
plaything! Yes, maybe it is a plaything.” 

The heat in the street was terrible: and the airlessness, the 
bustle and the plaster, scaffolding, bricks, and dust all about 
him, and that special Petersburg stench, so familiar to all 
who are unable to get out of town in summer—all worked 
painfully upon the young man’s already overwrought nerves. 
The insufferable stench from the pot-houses, which are par- 
ticularly numerous in that part of the town, and the drunken 
men whom he met continually, although it was a working 
day, completed the revolting misery of the picture, An 
expression of the profoundest disgust gleamed for a moment 
in the young man’s refined face. He was, by the way, ex- 
ceptionally handsome, above the average in height, slim, 
well-built, with beautiful dark eyes and dark brown hair. 
Soon he sank into deep thought, or more accurately speak- 
ing into a complete blankness of mind; he walked along not 
observing what was about him and not caring to observe it. 
From time to time, he would mutter something, from the 
habit of talking to himself, to which he had just confessed, 
At these moments he would become conscious that his ideas 
were sometimes in a tangle and that he was very weak; for 
two days he had scarcely tasted food. 


He was so badly dressed that even a man accustomed to 
shabbiness would have been ashamed to be seen in the street 
in such rags. In that quarter of the town, however, scarcely 
any short-coming in dress would have created surprise. 
Owing to the proximity of the Hay Market, the number of 
establishments of bad character, the preponderance of the 
trading and working class population crowded in these streets 
and alleys in the heart of Petersburg, types so various were 
to be seen in the streets that no figure, however queer, would 
have caused surprise. But there was such accumulated bit- 
terness and contempt in the young man’s heart that, in spite 
of all the fastidiousness of youth, he minded his rags least of 
all in the street. It was a different matter when he met with 
acquaintances or with former fellow students, whom, indeed, 
he disliked meeting at any time. And yet when a drunken 
man who, for some unknown reason, was being taken some- 
where in a huge wagon dragged by a heavy dray horse, sud- 
denly shouted at him as he drove past: “Hey there, German 
hatter!” bawling at the top of his voice and pointing at him==» 
the young man stopped suddenly and clutched tremulously at 
his hat. It was a tall round hat from Zimmerman’s, but 
completely worn out, rusty with age, all torn and bespattered, 
brimless and bent on one side in a most unseemly fashion. 
Not shame, however, but quite another feeling akin to terror 
had overtaken him. 

“I knew it,’ he muttered in confusion, “I thought so! 
That’s the worst of all! Why, a stupid thing like this, the 
most trivial detail might spoil the whole plan. Yes, my hat 
is too noticeable. ...It looks absurd and that makes it 
noticeable... . With my rags I ought to wear a cap, any 
sort of old pancake, but not this grotesque thing. Nobody 
wears such a hat, it would be noticed a mile off, it would be 
remembered. . . . What matters is that people would remem- 
ber it, and that would give them a clue. For this business 
one should be as little conspicuous as possible. . . . Trifles, 
trifles are what matter! Why, it’s just such trifles that 
always ruin everything. .. .” 

He had not far to go; he knew indeed how many steps it 
was from the gate of his lodging house: exactly seven hun- 
dred and thirty. He had counted them once when he had 


been lost in dreams. At the time he had put no faith in 
those dreams and was only tantalising himself by their 
hideous but daring recklessness. Now, .a month later, he had 
begun to look upon them differently, and, in spite of the 
monologues in which he jeered at his own impotence and 
indecision, he had involuntarily come to regard this “hideous” 
dream as an exploit to be attempted, although he still did 
not realise this himself. He was positively going now for a 
“rehearsal” of his project, and at every step his excitement 
grew miore and more violent. 

With a sinking heart and a nervous tremor, he went up to 
a huge house which on one side looked on to the canal, and 
on the other into the street. This house was let out in tiny 
tenements and was inhabited by working people of all 
kinds—tailors, locksmiths, cooks, Germans of sorts, girls 
picking up a living as best they could, petty clerks, &c. 
There was a continual coming and going through the two 
gates and in the two courtyards of the house. Three or four 
door-keepers were employed on the building. The young 
man was very glad to meet none of them, and at once slipped 
unnoticed through the door on the right, and up the staircase. 
It was a back staircase, dark and narrow, but he was 
familiar with it already, and knew his way, and he liked all 
these surroundings: in such darkness even the most inquisi- 
tive eyes were not to be dreaded. 

“Tf I am so scared now, what would it be if it somehow 
came to pass that I were really going to do it?” he could not 
help asking himself as he reached the fourth storey. There 
his progress was barred by-some porters who were engaged 
in moving furniture out of a flat. He knew that the flat 
had been occupied by a German clerk in the civil service, 
and his family. This German was moving out then, and so 
the fourth floor on this staircase would be untenanted except 
by the old woman. “That's a good thing anyway,” he 
thought to himself, as he rang the bell of the old woman’s 
flat. The bell gave a faint tinkle as though it were made of 
tin and not of copper. The little flats in such houses always 
have bells that ring like that. He had forgotten the 
note of that bell, and now its peculiar tinkle seemed to remind 
him of something and to bring it clearly before him. ... 


He started, his nerves were terribly overstrained by now. In 
a little while, the door was opened a tiny crack: the old 
woman eyed her visitor with evident distrust through the 
crack, and nothing could be seen but her little eyes, glittering 
in the darkness. But, seeing a number of people on the land- 
ing, she grew bolder, and opened the door wide. The young 
man stepped into the dark entry, which was partitioned off 
from the tiny kitchen. The old woman stood facing him in 
silence and looking inquiringly at him. She was a diminu: 
tive, withered up old woman of sixty, with sharp malignant 
eyes and a sharp little nose. Her colourless, somewhat 
grizzled hair was thickly smeared with oil, and she wore no 
kerchief over it. Round her thin long neck, which looked 
like a hen’s leg, was knotted some sort of flannel rag, and, in 
spite of the heat, there hung flapping on her shoulders, a 
mangy fur cape, yellow with age. The old woman coughed 
and groaned at every instant. The young man must have 
looked at her with a rather peculiar expression, for a gleam 
of mistrust came into her eyes again. 

“Raskolnikov, a student, I came here a month ago,” the 
young man made haste to mutter, with a half bow, remem- 
bering that he ought to be more polite. 

“I remember, my good sir, I remember quite well your 
coming here,’ the old woman said distinctly, still keeping 
her inquiring eyes on his face. 

“And here ... I am again on the same errand,” Raskolni- 
kov continued, a little disconcerted and surprised at the old 
woman’s mistrust. “Perhaps she is always like that though, 
only I did not notice it the other time,” he thought with an 
uneasy feeling. 

The old woman paused, as though hesitating; then stepped 
on one side, and pointing to the door of the room, she said, 
letting her visitor pass in front of her: 

“Step in, my good sir.” 

The little room into which the young man walked, with 
yellow paper on the walls, geraniums and muslin curtains in 
the windows, was brightly lighted up at that moment by the 
setting sun. 

“So the sun will shine like this then too!” flashed as it 
were by chance through Raskolnikov’s mind, and with a 


rapid glance he scanned everything in the room, trying as 
far as possible to notice and remember its arrangement. 
But there was nothing special in the room. The furniture, 
all very old and of yellow wood, consisted of a sofa with a 
huge bent wooden back, an oval table in front of the sofa, a 
dressing-table with a looking-glass fixed on it between the 
windows, chairs along the walls and two or three half-penny 
prints in yellow frames, representing German damsels with 
birds in their hands—that was all. In the corner a light was 
burning before a small ikon. Everything was very clean; 
the floor and the furniture were brightly polished; everything 

“Lizaveta’s work,” thought the young man. There was not 
a speck of dust to be seen in the whole flat. 

“It’s in the houses of spiteful old widows that one finds 
such cleanliness,” Raskolnikov thought again, and he stole a 
curious glance at the cotton curtain over the door leading 
into another tiny room, in which stood the old woman’s bed 
and chest of drawers and into which he had never looked 
before. These two rooms made up the whole flat. 

“What do you want?” the old woman said severely, coming 
into the room and, as before, standing in front of him so as 
to look him straight in the face. 

“I’ve brought something to pawn here,” and he drew out 
of his pocket an old-fashioned flat silver watch, on the back 
of which was engraved a globe; the chain was of steel. 

“But the time is up for your last pledge. The month was 
up the day before yesterday.” 

“I will bring you the interest for another month; wait a 

“But that’s for me to do as I please, my good sir, to wait 
or to sell your pledge at once.” 

“How much will you give me for the watch, Alyona Iva- 
novna ?” 

“You come with such trifles, my good sir, it’s scarcely 
worth anything. I gave you two roubles last time for your 
ring and one could buy it quite new at a jeweller’s for a 
rouble and a half.” 

“Give me four roubles for it, I shall redeem it, it was my 
father’s. I shall be getting some money soon.” 


“A rouble and a half, and interest in advance, if you like!” 

“A rouble and a half!” cried the young man. 

“Please yourself”—and the old woman handed him back 
the watch. The young man took it, and was so angry that 
he was on the point of going away; but checked himself at 
once, remembering that there was nowhere else he could go, 
and that he had had another object also in coming, 

“Hand it over,’ he said roughly. 

The old woman fumbled in her pocket for her keys, and 
disappeared behind the curtain into the other room. The 
young man, left standing alone in the middle of the room, 
listened inquisitively, thinking. He could hear her unlocking 
the chest of drawers. 

“It must be the top drawer,” he reflected. “So she carried 
the keys in a pocket on the right. All in one bunch on a 
steel ring. ... And there’s one key there, three times as 
big as all the others, with deep notches; that can’t be the 
key of the chest of drawers ... then there must be some 
other chest or strong box... that’s worth knowing. 
Strong-boxes always have keys like that... but how de- 
grading it all is.” 

The old woman came back. 

“Here, sir: as we say ten copecks the rouble a month, so 
I must take fifteen copecks from a rouble and a half for the 
month in advance. But for the two roubles I lent you before 
you owe me now twenty copecks on the same reckoning in 
advance. That makes thirty-five copecks altogether. So I 
must give you a rouble and fifteen copecks for the watch. 
Here it is.” 

“What! only a rouble and fifteen copecks now!” 

“Just so.” 

The young man did not dispute it and took the money. He 
looked at the old woman, and was in no hurry to get away, 
as though there was still something he wanted to say or to 
do, but he did not himself quite know what. 

“I may be bringing you something else in a day or two, 
Alyona Ivanovna—a valuable thing—silver—a cigarette box, 
as soon as I get it back from a friend . . .” he broke off in 
confusion. | 

“Well, we will talk about it then, sir.” 


“Good-bye—are you always at home alone, your sister is 
not here with you?” He asked her as casually as possible as 
he went out into the passage. 

“What business is she of yours, my good sir?” 

“Oh, nothing particular, I simply asked. You are too 
quick. . . . Good-day, Alyona Ivanovna.” 

Raskolnikov went out in complete confusion. This con- 
fusion became more and more intense. As he went down 
the stairs, he even stopped short, two or three times, as 
though suddenly struck by some thought. When he was in 
the street he cried out, “Oh, God, how loathsome it all is! 
and can I, can I possibly. ... No, it’s nonsense, it’s rub- 
bish!”’ he added resolutely. “And how could such an atro- 
cious thing come into my head? What filthy things my 
heart is capable of. Yes, filthy above all, disgusting, loath- 
some, loathsome !—and for a whole month I’ve been... .” 
But no words, no exciamations, could express his agitation. 
The feeling of intense repulsion, which had begun to oppress 
and torture his heart while he was on his way to see the old 
woman, had by now reached such a pitch and had taken such 
a definite form that he did not know what to do with him- 
self to escape from his wretchedness. He walked along the 
pavement like a drunken man, regardless of the passers-by, 
and jostling against them, and only came to his senses when 
he was in the next street. Looking round, he noticed that he 
was standing close to a tavern which was entered by steps 
leading from the pavement to the basement. At that instant 
two drunken men came out at the door, and abusing and 
supporting one another, they mounted the steps. Without 
stopping to think, Raskolnikov went down the steps at once. 
Till that moment he had never been into a tavern, but now he 
felt giddy and was tormented by a burning thirst. He longed 
for a drink of cold beer, and attributed his sudden weakness 
to the want of food. He sat down at a sticky little table in a 
dark and dirty corner; ordered some beer, and eagerly 
drank off the first glassful. At once he felt easier; and his 
thoughts became clear. 

“All that’s nonsense,” he said hopefully, “and there is noth- 
ing in it all to worry about! It’s simply physical derange- 
ment. Just a glass of beer, a piece of dry bread—and in 


ine i 

a ae 


one moment the brain is stronger, the mind is clearer and the 
will is firm! Phew, how utterly petty it all is!’ 

But in spite of this scornful reflection, he was by now look- 
ing cheerful as though he were suddenly set free from a ter- 
rible burden: and he gazed round in a friendly way at the 
people in the room. But even at that moment he had a dim 
foreboding that this happier frame of mind was also not 

There were few people at the time in the tavern. Besides 
the two drunken men he had met on the steps, a group con- 
sisting of about five men and a girl with a concertina had 
gone out at the same time. Their departure left the room 
quiet and rather empty. The persons still in the tavern were 
a man who appeared to be an artisan, drunk, but not ex- 
tremely so, sitting before a pot of beer, and his companion, 
a huge, stout man with a grey beard, in a short full-skirted 
coat. He was very drunk: and had dropped asleep on the 
bench; every now and then, he began as though in his sleep, 
cracking his fingers, with his arms wide apart and the upper 
part of his body bounding about on the bench, while he 
hummed some meaningless refrain, trying to recall some 
such lines as these: 

“His wife a year he fondly loved 
His wife a—a year he—fondly loved.” 

Or suddenly waking up again: 

“Walking along the crowded row 
He met the one he used to know.” 

But no one shared his enjoyment: his silent companion 
looked with positive hostility and mistrust at all these mani- 
festations. There was another man in the room who looked 
somewhat like a retired government clerk. He was sitting 
apart, now and then sipping from his pot and looking round 
at the company. He, too, appeared to be in some agitation, 


ASKOLNIKOV was not used to crowds, and, as we 
said before, he avoided society of every sort, more 
especially of late. But now all at once he felt a desire 

to be with other people. Something new seemed to be taking 
place within him, and with it he felt a sort of thirst for com- 
pany. He was so weary after a whole month of concentrated 
wretchedness and gloomy excitement that he longed to rest, 
if only for a moment, in some other world, whatever it might 
be; and, in spite of the filthiness of the surroundings, he was 
glad now to stay in the tavern. 

The master of the establishment was in another room, but 
he frequently came down some steps into the main room, 
his jaunty, tarred boots with red turn-over tops coming into 
view each time before the rest of his person. He wore a full 
coat and a horribly greasy black satin waistcoat, with no 
cravat, and his whole face seemed smeared with oil like an 
iron lock. At the counter stood a boy of about fourteen, and 
there was another boy somewhat younger who handed what- 
ever was wanted. On the counter lay some sliced cucumber, 
some pieces of dried black bread, and some fish, chopped up 
small, all smelling very bad. It was insufferably close, and so 
heavy with the fumes of spirits that five minutes in such an 
atmosphere might well make a man drunk. 

There are chance meetings with strangers that interest us 
from the first moment, before a word is spoken. Such was 
the impression made on Raskolnikov by the person sitting a 
little distance from him, who looked like a retired clerk. The 
young man often recalled his impression afterwards, and 
even ascribed it to presentiment. He looked repeatedly at 
the clerk, partly no doubt because the latter was staring per- 
sistently at him, obviously anxious to enter into conversation. 
At the other persons in the room, including the tavern-keeper, 
the clerk looked as though he were used to their company, 
and weary of it, showing a shade of condescending contempt 




for them as persons of station and culture inferior to his own, 
with whom it would be useless for him to converse. He was 
a man over fifty, bald and grizzled, of medium height, and 
stoutly built. His face, bloated from continual drinking, was 
of a yellow, even greenish, tinge, with swollen eyelids, out of 
which keen, reddish eyes gleamed like little chinks. But there 
was something very strange in him; there was a light in his 
eyes as though of intense feeling—perhaps there were even 
thought and intelligence, but at the same time there was a 
gleam of something like madness. He was wearing an old 
and hopelessly ragged black dress coat, with all its buttons 
missing except one, and that one he had buttoned, evidently 
clinging to this last trace of respectability. A crumpled shirt 
front, covered with spots and stains, protruded from his can- 
vas waistcoat. Like a clerk, he wore no beard, nor mous- 
tache, but had been so long unshaven that his chin looked 
like a stiff greyish brush. And there was something respect- 
able and like an official about his manner too. But he was 
restless; he ruffled up his hair and from time to time let 
his head drop into his hands dejectedly resting his ragged 
elbows on the stained and sticky table. At last he looked 
straight at Raskolnikov, and said loudly and resolutely: 

“May I venture, honoured sir, to engage you in polite con- 
versation? Forasmuch as, though your exterior would not 
command respect, my experience admonishes me that you are 
a man of education and not accustomed to drinking. I have 
always respected education when in conjunction with gen- 
uine sentiments, and I am besides a titular counsellor in rank. 
Marmeladov—such is my name; titular counsellor. I make 
bold to inquire—have you been in the service?” 

“No, I am studying,” answered the young man, somewhat 
surprised at the grandiloquent style of the speaker and also at 
being so directly addressed. In spite of the momentary de- 
sire he had just been feeling for company of any sort, on 
being actually spoken to he felt immediately his habitual irri- 
table and uneasy aversion for any stranger who approached 
or attempted to approach him. 

“A student then, or formerly a student,” cried the clerk. 
“Just what I thought! I’m a man of experience, immense 
experience, sir,” and he tapped his forehead with his fingers 


in self-approval. “You’ve been a student or have attended 
some learned institution! ... But allow me—”’ He got 
up, staggered, took up his jug and his glass, and sat down 
beside the young man, facing him a little sideways. He was 
drunk, but spoke fluently and boldly, only occasionally losing 
the thread of his sentences and drawling his words. He 
pounced upon Raskolnikov as greedily as though he too 
had not spoken to a soul for a month, 

“Honoured sir,’ he began almost with solemnity, “povert 
is not a vice, that’s a true saying. Yet I know too Hat 
drunkenness is not a virtue, and that that’s even truer. But 
beggary, honoured sir, beggary is a vice. In poverty you 
may still retain your innate nobility of soul, but in beggary— 
never—no one. For beggary a man is not chased out of hu- 
man society with a stick, he is swept out with a broom, so 
as to make it as humiliating as possible; and quite right too, 
forasmuch as in beggary I am ready to be the first to hu- 
miliate myself. Hence the pot house! Honoured sir, a 
month ago Mr. Lebeziatnikov gave my wife a beating, and 
my wife is a very different matter from me! Do you un- 
derstand? Allow me to ask you another question out of 
simple curiosity: have you ever spent a night on a hay 
barge, on the Neva?” 

“No, I have not happened to,’ answered Raskolnikov. 
“What do you mean?” 

“Well I’ve just come from one and it’s the fifth night I’ve 
slept so—’ He filled his glass, emptied it and paused. 
Bits of hay were in fact clinging to his clothes and sticking 
to his hair. It seemed quite probable that he had not un- 
dressed or washed for the last five days. His hands, par- 
ticularly, were filthy. They were fat and red, with black 

His conversation seemed to excite a general though lan- 
guid interest. The boys at the counter fell to sniggering. 
The innkeeper came down from the upper room, apparently 
on purpose to listen to the “funny fellow” and sat down at 
a little distance, yawning lazily, but with dignity. Evidently 
Marmeladov was a familiar figure here and he had most 
likely acquired his weakness for high-flown speeches from 
the habit of frequently entering into conversation with 

be A pe Re tetany IO 


strangers of all sorts in the tavern. This habit develops 
into a necessity in some drunkards, and especially in those 
who are looked after sharply and kept in order at home. 
Hence in the company of other drinkers they try to justify 
themselves and even if possible obtain consideration. 

“Funny fellow!” pronounced the innkeeper. “And why 
don’t you work, why aren’t you at your duty, if you are in 
the service ?” 

“Why am I not at my duty, honoured sir,” Marmeladov 
went on, addressing himself exclusively to Raskolnikov, as 
though it had been he who put that question to him. “Why 
am I not at my duty? Does not my heart ache to think 
what a useless worm I am? A month ago when Mr. Le- 
beziatnikov beat my wife with his own hands, and I lay drunk, 
didn’t I suffer? Excuse me, young man, has it ever happened 
to you... hm... well, to petition hopelessly for a loan?” 

“Yes, it has. But what do you mean by hopelessly ?” 

“Hopelessly in the fullest sense, when you know before- 
hand that you will get nothing by it. You know, for in- 
stance, beforehand with positive certainty that this man, this 
most reputable and exemplary citizen will on no considera- 
tion give you money; and indeed I ask you why should he? 
For he knows of course that I shan’t pay it back. From 
compassion? But Mr. Lebeziatnikov who keeps up with 
modern ideas explained the other day that compassion is 
forbidden nowadays by science itself, and that that’s what is 
done now in England, where there is political economy. 
Why, I ask you, should he give it to me? And yet though I 
know beforehand that he won’t, I set off to him and—” 

“Why do you go?” put in Raskolnikov. 

“Weil, when one has no one, nowhere else one can go! 
For every man must have somewhere to go. Since there 
are times when one absolutely must go somewhere! When 
my own daughter first went out with a yellow ticket, then 
I had to go... (for my daughter has a yellow passport,” ) 
he added in parenthesis, looking with a certain uneasiness 
at the young man. “No matter, sir, no matter!” he went 
on hurriedly and with apparent composure when both the 
boys at the counter guffawed and even the innkeeper 
smiled—“No matter, I am not confounded by the wagging of 


their heads; for every one knows everything about it already, 
and all that is secret is made open. And I accept it all not 
with contempt, but with humility. So be it! So be it! 
‘Behold the man!’ Excuse me, young man, can you... 
No, to put it more strongly and more distinctly; not can you 
but dare you, looking upon me, assert that I am not a pig?” 

The young man did not answer a word. 

“Well,” the orator began again stolidly and with even in- 
creased dignity, after waiting for the laughter in the room 
to subside. “Well, so be it, I am a pig, but she is a lady! I 
have the semblance of a beast, but Katerina Ivanovna, my 
spouse is a person of education and an officer’s daughter 
Granted, granted, I am a scoundrel, but she is a woman of a 
noble heart, full of sentiments, refined by education. And 
yet... oh, if only she felt for me! Honoured sir, honoured 
sir, you know every man ought to have at least one place 
where people feel for him!! But Katerina Ivanovna, 
though she is magnanimous, she is unjust. ... And yet, al- 
though I realise that when she pulls my hair she only does 
it out of pity—for I repeat without being ashamed, she pulls 
my hair, young man,” he declared with redoubled dignity, 
' hearing the sniggering again—‘but, my God, if she would 
but once. ... But no, no! It’s all in vain and it’s no use 
talking! No use talking! For more than once, my wish did 
come true and more than once she has felt for me but... 
such is my fate and I am a beast by nature!” 

“Rather !” assented the innkeeper yawning. Marmeladov 
struck his fist resolutely on the table. 

“Such is my fate! Do you know, sir, do you know, I have 
sold her very stockings for drink? Not her shoes—that 
would be more or less in the order of things, but her stock- 
ings, her stockings I have sold for drink! Her mohair 
shawl I sold for drink, a present to her long ago, her own 
property, not mine; and we live in a cold room and she 
caught cold this winter and has begun coughing and spitting 
blood too. We have three little children and Katerina 
Ivanovna is at work from morning till night; she is scrub- 
bing and cleaning and washing the children, for she’s been 
used to cleanliness from a child. But her chest is weak and 
she has a tendency to consumption and I feel it! Do you 


suppose I don’t feel it? And the more I drink the more I 
feel it. That’s why I drink too. I try to find sympathy and 
feeling in drink. . . . I drink so that I may suffer twice as 
much!” And as though in despair he laid his head down 
on the table. 

“Young man,” he went on, raising his head again, “in 
your face I seem to read some trouble of mind. When you 
came in I read it, and that was why I addressed you at once. 
For in unfolding to you the story of my life, I do not wish 
to make myself a laughing-stock before these idle listeners, 
who indeed know all about it already, but I am looking for 
a man of feeling and education. Know then that my wife 
was educated in a high-class school for the daughters of 
noblemen, and on leaving, she danced the shawl dance before 
the governor and other personages for which she was pre- 
sented with a gold medal and a certificate of merit. The 
medal , .. well, the medal of course was sold—long ago, 
hm ... but the certificate of merit is in her trunk still and 
not long ago she showed it to our landlady. And although she 
is most continually on bad terms with the landlady, yet she 
wanted to tell some one or other of her past honours and 
of the happy days that are gone. I don’t condemn her for 
it. I don’t blame her, for the one thing left her is recollec- 
tion of the past, and all the rest is dust and ashes. Yes, yes, 
she is a lady of spirit, proud and determined. She scrubs 
the floors herself and has nothing but black bread to eat, but 
won't allow herself to be treated with disrespect. That’s why 
she would not overlook Mr. Lebeziatnikov’s rudeness to her, 
and so when he gave her a beating for it, she took to her 
bed more from the hurt to her feelings than from the 
blows. She was a widow when I married her, with three 
children, one smaller than the other. She married her first 
husband, an infantry officer, for love, and ran away with him 
from her father’s house. She was exceedingly fond of her 
husband; but he gave way to cards, got into trouble and 
with that he died. He used to beat her at the end: and al- 
though she paid him back, of which I have authentic docu- 
mentary evidence, to this day she speaks of him with tears 
and she throws him up at me; and I am glad, I am glad that, 
though only in imagination, she should think of herself as 


having once been happy.... And she was left at his 
death with three children in a wild and remote district where 
I happened to be at the time; and she was left in such hope- 
less poverty that, although I have seen many ups and downs 
of all sorts, I don’t feel equal to describing it even. Her 
relations had all thrown her off. And she was proud, too, 
excessively proud... . And then, honoured sir, and then, I, 
being at the time a widower, with a daughter of fourteen left 
me by my first wife, offered her my hand, for I could not 
bear the sight of such suffering. You can judge the extrem- 
ity of her calamities, that she, a woman of education and 
culture and distinguished family, should have consented to 
be my wife. But she did! Weeping and sobbing and wring- 
ing her hands, she married me! For she had nowhere to 
turn! Do you understand, sir, do you understand what it 
means when you have absolutely nowhere to turn? No, that 
you don’t understand yet... . And for a whole year, I per- 
formed my duties conscientiously and faithfully, and did not 
touch this” (he tapped the jug with his finger), “for I have 
feelings. But even so, I could not please her; and then I 
lost my place too, and that through no fault of mine but 
throngh changes in the office; and then I did touch it! ... 
It will be a year and a half ago soon since we found our- 
selves at last after many wanderings and numerous calamities 
in this magnificent capital, adorned with innumerable monu- 
ments. Here too I obtained a situation. ... I obtained it 
and I lost it again. Do you understand? This time it was 
through my own fault I lost it: for my weakness had come 
out. ... We have now part of a room at Amalia Ivanovna 
Lippevechsel’s; and what we live upon and what we pay our 
rent with, I could not say. There are a lot of people living 
there beside ourselves. Dirt and disorder, a perfect Bedlam yes.... And meanwhile my daughter by my 
first wife has grown up; and what my daughter has had to 
put up with from her step-mother whilst she was growing up, 
I won’t speak of. For, though Katerina Ivanovna is full of 
generous feelings, she is a spirited lady, irritable and short- 
tempered... . Yes. But it’s no use going over that! Sonia, 
as you may well fancy, has had no education. I did make an 
effort four years ago to give her a course of geography and 


universal history, but as I was not very well up in those sub- 
jects myself and we had no suitable books, and what books 
we had... hm, any way we have not even those now, so all 
our instruction came to an end. We stopped at Cyrus of 
Persia. Since she has attained years of maturity, she has 
read other books of romantic tendency and of late she has 
read with great interest a book she got through Mr. Lebe- 
ziatnikov, Lewes’ Physiology—do you know it?—and even 
recounted extracts from it to us: and that’s the whole of her 
education. And now may I venture to address you, honoured 
sir, on my own account with a private question. Do you 
suppose that a respectable poor girl can earn much by honest 
work? Not fifteen farthings a day can she earn, if she is 
respectable and has no special talent and that without putting 
her work down for an instant! And what’s more, Ivan 
Ivanitch Klopstock the civil counsellor—have you heard of 
him ?—has not to this day paid her for the half-dozen linen 
shirts she made him and drove her roughly away, stamping 
and reviling her, on the pretext that the shirt collars were 
not made like the pattern and were put in askew. And there 
are the little ones hungry....And Katerina Ivanovna 
walking up and down and wringing her hands, her cheeks 
flushed red, as they always are in that disease: ‘Here you 
live with us,’ says she, ‘you eat and drink and are kept warm 
and you do nothing to help.’ And much she gets to eat and 
drink when there is not a crust for the little ones for three 
days! I was lying at the time ... well, what of it! I was 
lying drunk and I heard my Sonia speaking (she is a gentle 
creature with a soft little voice ... fair hair and such a 
pale, thin little face). She said: ‘Katerina Ivanovna, am I 
really to do a thing like that?’ And Darya Frantsovna, a 
woman of evil character and very well known to the police, 
had two or three times tried to get at her through the land- 
lady. ‘And why not? said Katerina Ivanovna with a jeer, 
‘you are something mighty precious to be so careful of!’ 
But don’t blame her, don’t blame her, honoured sir, don’t 
blame her! She was not herself when she spoke, but driven 
to distraction by her illness and the crying of the hungry 
children; and it was said more to wound her than anything 
else. ... For that’s Katerina Ivanovna’s character, and 


when children cry, even from hunger, she falls to beating 
them at once. At six o’clock I saw Sonia get up, put on her 
kerchief and her cape, and go out of the room and about nine 
o'clock she came back. She walked straight up to Katerina 
Ivanoyna and she laid thirty roubles on the table before her 
in silence. She did not utter a word, she did not even look 
at her, she simply picked up our big green drap de dames 
shawl (we have a shawl, made of drap de dames), put it over 
her head and face and lay down on the bed with her 
the wall; only her little shoulders and her body kept shudder- 
ing. ... And I went on lying there, just as before.... 
And then I saw, young man, I saw Katerina Ivanovna, in 
the same silence go up to Sonia’s little bed; she was on her 
knees all the evening kissing Sonia’s feet, and would not get 
up, and then they both fell asleep in each other’s arms... 
together, together ... yes...andI... Jay drunk.” 
Marmeladov stopped short, as though his voice had failed 
him. Then he hurriedly filled his glass, drank, and cleared 
his throat. . 
“Since then, sir,” he went on after a brief pause—“Since 
then, owing to an unfortunate occurrence and through in- 
- formation given by evil-intentioned persons—in all which 
Darya Frantsovna took a leading part on the pretext that 
she had been treated with want of respect—since then my 
daughter Sofya Semyonovna has been forced to take a yel- 
low ticket, and owing to that she is unable to go on living 
with us. For our landlady, Amalia Ivanovna would not 
hear of it (though she had backed up Darya Frantsovna be-. 
fore) and Mr. Lebeziatnikov All the 
trouble between him and Katerina Ivanovna was on Sonia’s 
account. At first he was for making up to Sonia himself 
and then all of a sudden he stood on his dignity: ‘how,’ said 
he, ‘can a highly educated man like me live in the same 
rooms with a girl like that?’ And Katerina Ivanovna would 
not let it pass, she stood up for her... and so that’s how 
it happened. And Sonia comes to us now, mostly after 
dark; she comforts Katerina Ivanovna and gives her all she 
can. ... She has a room at the Kapernaumovs, the tailors, 
she lodges with them: Kapernaumov is a lame man with a 
cleft palate and all of his numerous family have cleft palates 


too. And his wife, too, has a cleft palate. They all live in 
one room, but Sonia has her own, partitioned off.... Hm 
«+. yes... very poor people and all with cleft palates... 
yes. Then I got up in the morning, put on my rags, lifted up 
my hands to heaven and set off to his excellency Ivan Afa- 
nasyevitch. His excellency Ivan Afanasyevitch, do you know 
him? No? Well, then, it’s a man of God you don’t know. 
He is wax ... wax before the face of the Lord; even as 
wax melteth!... His eyes were dim when he heard my 
story. ‘Marmeladov, once already you have deceived my 
expectations ... Ill take you once more on my own re- 
sponsibility—that’s what he said, ‘remember,’ he said, ‘and 
now you can go.’ I kissed the dust at his feet—in thought 
only, for in reality he would not have allowed me to do it, 
being a statesman and a man of modern political and en- 
lightened ideas. I returned home, and when I announced 
that I’d been taken back into the service and should receive a 
salary, heavens, what a to-do there was.. .!” 

Marmeladov stopped again in violent excitement. At that 
moment a whole party of revellers already drunk came in 
from the street, and the sounds of a hired concertina and the 
cracked piping voice of a child of seven singing “The 
Hamlet” were heard in the entry. The room was filled with 
noise. The tavern-keeper and the boys were busy with the 
new-comers. Marmeladov paying no attention to the new 
arrivals continued his story. He appeared by now to be 
extremely weak, but as he became more and more drunk, he 
became more and more talkative. The recollection of his 
recent success in getting the situation seemed to revive him, 
and was positively reflected in a sort of radiance on his face. 
Raskolnikov listened attentively. 

“That was five weeks ago, sir. Yes....As soon as 
Katerina Ivanovna and Sonia heard of it, mercy on us, it was 
as though I stepped into the kingdom of Heaven. It used to 
be: you can lie like a beast, nothing but abuse. Now they 
were walking on tiptoe, hushing the children. ‘Semyon 
Zaharovitch is tired with his work at the office, he is resting, 
shh!’ They made me coffee before I went to work and boiled 
cream for me! They began to get real cream for me, do 
you hear that? And how they managed to get together the 


money for a decent outfit—-eleven roubles, fifty copecks, I 
can’t guess. Boots, cotton shirtfronts—most magnificent, a 
uniform, they got up all in splendid style, for eleven roubles 
and a half. The first morning I came back from the office 
I found Katerina Ivanovna had cooked two courses for din- 
ner—soup and salt meat with horse radish—which we had 
never dreamed of till then. She has not any dresses... 
none at all, but she got herself up as though she were going 
on a visit; and not that she’d anything to do it with, she 
smartened herself up with nothing at all, she’d done her hair 
nicely, put on a clean collar of some sort, cuffs, and there 
she was, quite a different person, she was younger and better 
looking. Sonia, my little darling, had only helped with 
money ‘for the time,’ she said, ‘it won’t do for me to come 
and see you too often. After dark maybe when no one can 
see.’ Do you hear, do you hear? I lay down for a nap 
after dinner and what do you think: though Katerina Iva- 
novna had quarrelled to the last degree with our landlady 
Amalia Ivanovna only a week before, she could not resist 
then asking her in to coffee. For two hours they were 
_ Sitting, whispering together. ‘Semyon Zaharovitch is in the 
service again, now, and receiving a salary,’ says she, ‘and he 
went himself to his excellency and his excellency himself 
came out to him, made all the others wait and led Semyon 
Zaharovitch by the hand before everybody into his study.’ 
Do you hear, do your hear? ‘To be sure,’ says he, ‘Semyon 
Zaharovitch, remembering your past services,’ says he, ‘and 
in spite of your propensity to that foolish weakness, since 
you promise now and since moreover we've got on badly 
without you,’ (do you hear, do you hear?) ‘and so,’ says he, 
‘I rely now on your word as a gentleman.’ And all that, let 
me tell you, she has simply made up for herself, and not 
simply out of wantonness, for the sake of bragging; no she 
believes it all herself, she amuses herself with her own 
fancies, upon my word she does! And I don’t blame her for 
it, no, I don’t blame her! . . . Six days ago, when I brought 
her my first earnings in full—twenty-three roubles forty 
copecks altogether—she called me her poppet: ‘poppet,’ said 
she, ‘my little poppet.’ And when we were by ourselves, 
you understand? You would not think me a beauty, 


you would not think much of me as a husband, would 
you? ... Well, she pinched my cheek ‘my little poppet,’ 
said she.” 

Marmeladov broke off, tried to smile, but suddenly his chin 
began to twitch. He controlled himself however. The 
tavern, the degraded appearance of the man, the five nights 
in the hay barge, and the pot of spirits, and yet this poignant 
love for his wife and children bewildered his listener. Ras- 
kolnikov listened intently but with a sick sensation. He felt 
vexed that he had come here. 

“Honoured sir, honoured sir,” cried Marmeladov recover- 
ing himself—“Oh, sir, perhaps all this seems a laughing 
matter to you, as it does to others, and perhaps I am only 
worrying you with the stupidity of all the trivial details of 
my home life, but it is not a laughing matter to me. For I 
can feel it all. . . . And the whole of that heavenly day of 
my life and the whole of that evening I passed in fleeting 
dreams of how I would arrange it all, and how I would dress 
all the children, and how I should give her rest, and how I 
should rescue my own daughter from dishonour and restore 
her to the bosom of her family. . . . Anda great deal more. 
. . . Quite excusable, sir. Well, then, sir (Marmeladov 
suddenly gave a sort of start, raised his head and gazed in- 
tently at his listener) well, on the very next day after all 
those dreams, that is to say, exactly five days ago, in the 
evening, by a cunning trick, like a thief in the night, I stole 
from Katerina Ivanovna the key of her box, took out what 
was left of my earnings, how much it was I have forgotten, 
and now look at me, all of you! It’s the fifth day since I left 
home, and they are looking for me there and it’s the end of 
my employment, and my uniform is lying in a tavern on the 
Egyptian bridge. I exchanged it for the garments I have 
on. . . and it’s the end of everything!” 

Marmeladov struck his forehead with his fist, clenched his 
teeth, closed his eyes and leaned heavily with his elbow on the 
table. But a minute later his face suddenly changed and 
with a certain assumed slyness and affectation of bravado, 
he glanced at Raskolnikov, laughed and said: 

“This morning I went to see Sonia, I went to ask her for 
a pick-me up! He-he-he!” 


“You don’t say she gave it to you?” cried one of the new- 
comers; he shouted the words and went off into a guffaw. 

“This very quart was bought with her money,” Marmela- 
dov declared, addressing himself exclusively to Raskolnikov. 
“Thirty copecks she gave me with her own hands, her last, 
all she had, asI saw. . . . She said nothing, she only looked 
at me without a word. . . . Not on earth, but up yonder 

. they grieve over men, they weep, but they don’t blame 
them, they don’t blame them! But it hurts more, it hurts 
more when they don’t blame! Thirty copecks yes! Afid 
maybe she needs them now, eh? What do you think, my 
dear sir? For now she’s got to keep up her appearance. It 
costs money, that smartness, that special smartness, you 
know? Do you understand? And there’s pomatum too, you 
see, she must have things; petticoats, starched ones, shoes 
too, real jaunty ones to show off her foot when she has to 
step over a puddle. Do you understand, sir, do you under- 
stand what all that smartness means? And here I, her own 
father, here I took thirty copecks of that money for a drink! 
And I am drinking it! And I have already drunk it! Come, 
who will have pity ona man like me, eh? Are you sorry for 
. me, sir, or not? Tell me, sir, are you sorry or not? He-he-he!” 

He would have filled his glass, but there was no drink left. 
The pot was empty. 

“What are you to be pitied for?” shouted the tavern- 
keeper, who was again near them. 

Shouts of laughter and even oaths followed. The laughter 
and the oaths came from those who were listening and also 
from those who had heard nothing, but were simply looking 
at the figure of the discharged government clerk. 

“To be pitied! Why am I to be pitied?” Marmeladov 
suddenly declaimed, standing up with his arm outstretched, 
as though he had been only waiting for that question. 

“Why am I to be pitied, you say? Yes! There’s nothing 
to pity me for! I ought to be crucified, crucified on a cross, 
not pitied! Crucify me, oh judge, crucify me, but pity me! 
And then I will go of myself to be crucified, for it’s not 
merry-making I seek, but tears and tribulation! . . . Do 
you suppose, you that sell, that this pint of yours has been 
sweet to me? It was tribulation I sought at the bottom of 


it, tears and tribulation, and have found it, and I have tasted 
it; but He will pity us Who has had pity on all men, Who 
has understood all men and all things, He is the One, He 
too is the judge. He will come in that day and He will ask: 
‘Where is the daughter who gave herself for her cross, con- 
sumptive step-mother and for the little children of another? 
Where is the daughter who had pity upon the filthy drunk- 
ard, her earthly father, undismayed by his beastliness?? And 
He will say, ‘Come to me! I have already forgiven thee 
once... . I have forgiven thee once... . Thy sins 
which are many are forgiven thee for thou hast loved 
much. . . .’ And he will forgive my Sonia, He will for- 
give, I know it . . . I felt it in my heart when I was with 
her just now! And He will judge and will forgive all, the 
good and the evil, the wise and the meek. . . . And when 
He has done with all of them, then He will summon us. 
‘You too come forth, He will say,‘Come forth, ye drunkards, 
come forth, ye weak ones, come forth, ye children of shame!’ 
And we shall all come forth, without shame and shall stand 
before him. And He will say unto us, ‘Ye are swine, made 
in the Image of the Beast and with his mark; but come ye 
also!’ And the wise ones and those of understanding will 
say, ‘Oh Lord, why dost Thou receive these men?’ And He 
will say, ‘This is why I receive them, oh ye wise, this is why 
I receive them, oh ye of understanding, that not one of them 
believed himself to be worthy of this, And He will hold 
out His hands to us and we shall fall down before Him. . . 
and we shall weep . . . and we shall understand all things! 
Then we shail understand all! . . . and all will under- 
stand, Katerina Ivanovna even . . . she will understand. 
t Lord, Thy kingdom come!” And he sank down on 
the bench exhausted, and helpless, looking at no one, appar- 
ently oblivious of his surroundings and plunged in deep 
thought. His words had created a certain impression; there 
was a moment of silence; but soon laughter and oaths were 
heard again. 

“That’s his notion!” 

“Talked himself silly !” 

“A fine clerk he is!” 

And so on, and so on, 


“Let us go, sir,” said Marmeladov all at once, raising his 
head and addressing Raskolnikov—“come along with me ... 
Kozel’s house, looking into the yard. I’m going to Katerina 
Ivanovna—time I did.” 

Raskolnikov had for some time been wanting to go and he 
had meant to help him. Marmeladov was much unsteadier 
on his legs than in his speech and leaned heavily on the 
young man. They hac two or three hundred paces to go. 
The drunken man was more and more overcome by dismay 
and confusion as they drew nearer the house. 

“It’s not Katerina Ivanovna I am afraid of now,” he mut- 
tered in agitation—“and that she will begin pulling my hair. 
What does my hair matter! Bother my hair! That’s what I 
say! Indeed it will be better if she does begin pulling it, 
that’s not what Iam afraid of . . . it’s her eyes I am afraid 
of . . . yes, her eyes . ... the red on her cheeks, too, 
frightens me . . . and her breathing too. . . . Have you 
noticed how people in that disease breathe . . . when they 
are excited? I am frightened of the children’s crying, 
too. . . . For if Sonia has not taken them food. . . I 
don’t know what’s happened! I don’t know! But blows I 
‘am not afraid of. . . . Know, sir, that such blows are not 
a pain to me, but even an enjoyment. In fact I can’t get on 
without it. . . . It’s better so. Let her strike me, it re- 
lieves her heart . . . it’s better so... There is the house. 
The house of Kozel, the cabinet maker . . . a German, 
well-to-do. Lead the way!” | 

They went in from the yard and the fourth storey. 
The staircase got darker and darker as they went up. It 
was nearly eleven o’clock and although in summer in Peters- 
burg there is no real night, yet it was quite dark at the top 
of the stairs. . 

A grimy little door at the very top of the stairs stood ajar. 
A very poor-looking room about ten paces long was lighted 
up by a candle-end; the whole of it was visible from the 
entrance. It was all in disorder, littered up with rags of all 
sorts, especially children’s garments. Across the furthest 
corner was stretched a ragged sheet. Behind it probably 
was the bed. There was nothing in the room except two 
chairs and a sofa covered with American leather, full of 


holes, before which stood an old deal kitchen-table, unpainted 
and uncovered. At the edge of the table stood a smouldering 
tallow-candle in an iron candlestick. It appeared that the 
family had a room to themselves, not part of a room, but 
their room was practically a passage. The door leading to 
the other rooms, or rather cupboards, into which Amalia 
Lippevechsel’s flat was divided stood half open, and there 
was shouting, uproar and laughter within. People seemed 
to be playing cards and drinking tea there. Words of the 
most unceremonious kind flew out from time to time. 
Raskolnikov recognised Katerina Ivanovna at once. She 
was a rather tall, slim and graceful woman, terribly ema- 
ciated, with magnificent dark brown hair and with a hectic 
flush in her cheeks. She was pacing up and down in her little 
room, pressing her hands against her‘ chest; her lips were 
parched and her breathing came in nerveus broken gasps. 
Her eyes glittered as in fever and looked avout with a harsh 
immovable stare. And that consumptive and excited face 
with the last flickering light of the candle-end playing upon 
it made a sickening impression. She seemed to Raskolnikov 
about thirty years old and was certainly a strange wife for 
Marmeladov. . . . She had not heard them and did not 
notice them coming in. She seemed to be lost in thought, 
hearing and seeing nothing. The room was close, but she 
had not opened the window; a stench rose from the stair- 
case, but the door on to the stairs was not closed. From the 
inner room clouds of tobacco smoke floated in, she kept 
coughing, but did not close the door. The youngest child, 
a girl of six, was asleep, sitting curled up on the floor with 
her head on the sofa. A boy a year older stood crying and 
shaking in the corner, probably he had just had a beating. 
Beside him stood a girl of nine years old, tall and thin, wear- 
ing a thin and ragged chemise with an ancient cashmere 
pelisse flung over her bare shoulders, long outgrown and 
barely reaching her knees. Her arm, as thin as a stick, was 
round her brother’s neck. She was trying to comfort him, 
whispering something to him, and doing all she could to keep 
him from whimpering again. At the same time her large 
dark eyes, which looked larger still from the thinness of her 
frightened face, were watching her mother with alarm. 


Marmeladov did not enter the door, but dropped on his knees 
in the very doorway, pushing Raskolnikov in front of him. 
The woman seeing a stranger stopped indifferently facing 
him, coming to herself for a moment and apparently won- 
dering what he had come for. But evidently she decided 
that he was going into the next room, as he had to pass 
through hers to get there. Taking no further notice of him, 
she walked towards the outer door to close it and uttered a 
sudden scream on seeing her husband on his knees in the, 

“Ah!” she cried out in a frenzy, “he has come back! The 
criminal! the monster!...And whereisthe money? What’s 
in your pocket, show me! And your clothes are all different! 
Where are your clothes? Where is the money? speak!” 

And she fell to searching him. Marmeladov submissively 
and obediently held up both arms to facilitate the search. 
Not a farthing was there. 

“Where is the money?” she cried—‘‘Mercy on us, can he 
have drunk it all? There were twelve silver roubles left in 
the chest!’ and in a fury she seized him by the hair and 
dragged him into the room. Marmeladov seconded her efforts 
by meekly crawling along on his knees. 

“And this is a consolation to me! This does not hurt me, 
but is a positive con-so-la-tion, ho-nou-red sir,” he called out, 
shaken to and fro by his hair and even once striking the - 
ground with his forehead. The child asleep on the floor 
woke up, and began to cry. The boy in the corner losing 
all control began trembling and screaming and rushed to his 
sister in violent terror, almost in a fit. The eldest girl was 
shaking like a leaf. 

“He’s drunk it! he’s drunk it all,” the poor woman 
screamed in despair—‘“and his clothes are gone! And they 
are hungry, hungry !”—and wringing her hands she pointed 
to the children. ‘Oh, accursed life! And you, are you not 
ashamed”’—she pounced all at once upon Raskolnikov—“from 
the tavern! Have you been drinking with him? You have 
been drinking with him, too! Go away!” 

The young man was hastening away without uttering a 
word. The inner door was thrown wide open and inquisitive 
faces were peering in at it. Coarse laughing faces with pipes 


and cigarettes and heads wearing caps thrust themselves in 
at the doorway. Further in could be seen figures in dressing 
gowns flung open, in costumes of unseemly scantiness, some 
of them with cards in their hands. They were particularly 
diverted, when Marmeladov, dragged about by his hair, 
shouted that it was a consolation to him. They even began 
to come into the room; at last a sinister shrill outcry was 
heard: this came from Amalia Lippevechsel herself pushing 
her way amongst them and trying to restore order after her 
own fashion and for the hundredth time to frighten the poor 
woman by ordering her with coarse abuse to clear out of the 
room next day. As he went out, Raskolnikov had time to put 
his hand into his pocket, to snatch up the coppers he had 
received in exchange for his rouble in the tavern and to lay 
them unnoticed on the window. Afterwards on the stairs, he 
changed his mind and would have gone back. 

“What a stupid thing I’ve done,” he thought to himself, 
“they have Sonia and I want it myself.” But reflecting that 
it would be impossible to take it back now and that in any 
case he would not have taken it, he dismissed it with a wave 
of his hand and went back to his lodging. “Sonia wants 
pomatum, too,’ he said as he walked along the street, and 
he laughed malignantly—‘“such smartness costs money. ... 
Hm! And maybe Sonia herself will be bankrupt to-day, for 
there is always a risk, hunting big game... digging for 
gold ... then they would all be without a crust to-morrow 
except for my money. Hurrah for Sonia! What a mine 
they’ve dug there! And they’re making the most of it! 
Yes, they are making the most of it! They’ve wept over 
it and grown used to it. Man grows used to everything, 
the scoundrel!” 

He sank into thought. 

“And what if 1 am wrong,” he cried suddenly after a mo- 
ment’s thought. “What if man is not really a scoundrel, man 
in general, I mean, the whole race of mankind—then all the 
rest is prejudice, simply artificial terrors and there are no 
barriers and it’s all as it should be.” 


| E waked up late next day after a broken sleep. But 
his sleep had not refreshed him; he waked up bilious, 

irritable, ill-tempered, and looked with hatred at his . 
room. It was a tiny cupboard of a room about six paces in 
length. It had a poverty-stricken appearance with its dusty 
yellow paper peeling off the walls, and it was so low-pitched 
that a man of more than average height was ill at ease in it 
and felt every moment that he would knock his head against 
the ceiling. The furniture was in keeping with the room: 
there were three old chairs, rather rickety; a painted table 
in the corner on which lay a few manuscripts and books; the 
dust that lay thick upon them showed that they had been long 
untouched. A big clumsy sofa occupied almost the whole 
of one wall and a half the floor space of the room; it was 
once covered with chintz, but was now in rags and served 
Raskolnikov as a bed. Often he went to sleep on it, as he 
was, without undressing, without sheets, wrapped in his 
old student’s overcoat, with his head on one little pillow, 
under which he heaped up all the linen he had, clean and 
dirty, by way of a bolster. A little table stood in front of 
the sofa. 

It would have been difficult to sink to a lower ebb of dis- 
order, but to Raskolnikov in his present state of mind this 
was positively agreeable. He had got completely away from 
every one, like a tortoise in its shell, and even the sight of 
the servant girl who had to wait upon him and looked some- 
times into his room made him writhe with nervous irrita- 
tion. He was in the condition that overtakes some mono- 
maniacs entirely concentrated upon one thing. His landlady 
had for the last fortnight given up sending him in meals, and 
he had not yet thought of expostulating with her, though 
he went without his dinner. Nastasya, the cook and only 
servant, was rather pleased at the lodger’s mood and had 
entirely given up sweeping and doing his room, only once a 



week or so she would stray into his room with a broom. She 
waked him up that day. 

“Get up, why are you asleep!” she called to him: “It’s 
past nine, I have brought you some tea; will you have a cup? 
I should think you’re fairly starving?” 

Raskolnikov opened his eyes, started and recognized Nas- 


“From the landlady, eh?” he asked, slowly and with a sickly 
face sitting up on the sofa. 

“From the landlady, indeed!” 

She set before him her own cracked teapot full of weak 
and stale tea and laid two yellow lumps of sugar by the side 
of it. 

“Here, Nastasya, take it please,” he said, fumbling in his 
pocket (for he had slept in his clothes) and taking out a 
handful of coppers—“run and buy me a loaf. And get mea 
little sausage, the cheapest, at the pork-butcher’s.” 

“The loaf I’ll fetch you this very minute, but wouldn’t you 
rather have some cabbage soup instead of sausage? It’s 
capital soup, yesterday’s. I saved it for you yesterday, but 
you came in late. It’s fine soup.” 

When the soup had been brought, and he had begun upon 
it, Nastasya sat down beside him on the sofa and began 
chatting. She was a country peasant-woman, and a very 
talkative one. 

“Praskovya Pavlovna means to complain to the police 
about you,” she said. 

He scowled. 

“To the police? What does she want?” 

“You don’t pay her money and you won’t turn out of the 
room. That’s what she wants, to be sure.” 

“The devil, that’s the last straw,” he muttered, grinding his 
teeth, “no, that would not suit me ... just now. She is a 
fool,” he added aloud. “T’ll go and talk to her to-day.” 

“Fool she is and no mistake, just as I am. But why, if 
you are so clever, do you lie here like a sack and have nothing 
to show for it? One time you used to go out, you say, to 
teach children. But why is it you do nothing now?” 

“I am doing...” Raskolnikov began sullenly and re- 


“What are you doing?” 

“Wonk oc” 

“What sort of work?” 

“I am thinking,” he answered seriously after a pause. 

Nastasya was overcome with a fit of laughter. She was 
given to laughter and when anything amused her, she laughed 
inaudibly, quivering and shaking all over till she felt ill. 

“And have you made much money by your thinking?” 
she managed to articulate at last. -. 

“One can’t go out to give lessons without boots. And 
I’m sick of it.” 

“Don’t quarrel with your bread and butter.” 

“They pay so little for lessons. What’s the use of a few 
coppers?” he answered, reluctantly, as though replying to 
his own thought. 

“And you want to get a fortune all at once?” 

He looked at her strangely. 

“Yes, I want a fortune,” he answered firmly, after a brief 

“Don’t be in such a hurry, you quite frighten me! Shall. 
I get you the loaf or not?” 

— “As you please.” 

“Ah, I forgot! <A letter came for you yesterday when you 
were out.” 

“A letter? for me! from whom?” 

“T can’t say. I gave three copecks of my own to the post- 
man for it. Will you pay me back?” 

“Then bring it to me, for God’s sake, bring it,’ cried 
Raskolnikov greatly excited—“good God!” 

A minute later the letter was brought him. That was it: 
from his mother, from the province of R——. He turned 
pale when he took it. It was a long while since he had re- 
ceived a letter, but another feeling also suddenly stabbed his 
heart. 2 

“Nastasya, leave me alone, for goodness’ sake; here are 
your three copecks, but for goodness’ sake, make haste and 
go 1”? 

The letter was quivering in his hand; he did not want to 
open it in her presence; he wanted to be left alone with this 
letter. When Nastasya had gone out, he lifted it quickly to 


his lips and kissed it; then he gazed intently at the address, 
the small, sloping handwriting, so dear and familiar, of the 
mother who had once taught him to read and write. He 
delayed; he seemed almost afraid of something. At last he 
opened it: it was a thick heavy letter, weighing over two 
ounces, two large sheets of note paper were covered with 
very small handwriting. 

“My dear Rodya,”’ wrote his mother—“It’s two months since I 
last had a talk with you by letter which has distressed me and even 
kept me awake at night, thinking. But I am sure you will not blame 
me for my inevitable silence. You know how I love you; you are 
all we have to look to, Dounia and I, you are our all, our one hope, 
our one stay. What a grief it was to me when I heard that you had 
given up the university some months ago, for want of means to keep 
yourself and that you had lost your lessons and your other work! 
How could I help you out of my hundred and twenty roubles a year 
pension? The fifteen roubles I sent you four months ago I borrowed, 
as you know, on security of my pension, from Vassily Ivanovitch 
Vahrushin a merchant of this town. He is a kind-hearted man and 
was a friend of your father’s too. But having given him the right 
to receive the pension, I had to wait till the debt was paid off and 
that is only just done, so that I’ve been unable to send you anything 
all this time. But now, thank God, I believe I shall be able to send 
you something more and in fact we may congratulate ourselves on 
our good fortune now, of which I hasten to inform you. In the 
first place, would you have guessed, dear Rodya, that your sister has 
been living with me for the last six weeks and we shall not be 
separated in the future. Thank God, her sufferings are over, but I 
will tell you everything in order, so that you may know just how 
everything has happened and all that we have hitherto concealed 
from you. When you wrote to me two months ago that you had 
heard that Dounia had a great deal to put up with in the Svidri- 
gallov’s house, when you wrote that and asked me to tell you all about 
it—what could I write in answer to you? If I had written the whole 
truth to you, I dare say you would have thrown up everything and 
have come to us, even if you had to walk all the way, for I know 
your character and your feelings, and you would not let your sister 
be insulted. I was in despair myself, but what could I do? And, 
besides, I did not know the whole truth myself then. What made it 
all so difficult was that Dounia received a hundred roubles in ad- 
vance when she took the place as governess in their family, on con- 
dition of part of her salary being deducted every month, and so it 
was impossible to throw up the situation without repaying the 
debt. This sum (now I can explain it all to you, my precious Rodya) 
she took chiefly in order to send you sixty roubles, which you needed 
so terribly then and which you received from us last year. We 
deceived you then, writing that this money came from Dounia’s 


savings, but that was not so, and now I tell you all about it, because, 
thank God, things have suddenly changed for the better, and that you 
may know how Dounia loves you and what a heart she has. At 
first indeed Mr. Svidrigailov treated her very rudely and used to 
make her disrespectful and jeering remarks at table. . . . But 
I don’t want to go into all those painful details, so as not to worry 
you for nothing when it is now all over. In short, in spite of the 
kind and generous behaviour of Marfa Petrovna, Mr. Svidrigailov’s 
wife, and all the rest of the household, Dounia had a very hard 
time, especially when Mr. Svidrigailov, relapsing into his old regi- 
mental habits, was under the influence of Bacchus. And how do. 
you think it was all explained later on? Would you believe that the 
crazy fellow had conceived a passion for Dounia from the beginning, 
but had concealed it under a show of rudeness and contempt. Pos- 
sibly he was ashamed and horrified himself at his own flighty hopes, 
considering his years and his being the father of a family; and that 
made him angry with Dounia. And possibly, too, he hoped by his 
rude and sneering behaviour to hide the truth from others. But 
at last he lost all control and had the face to make Dounia an open 
and shameful proposal, promising her all sorts of inducements and 
offering, besides, to throw up everything and take her to another 
estate of his, or even abroad. You can imagine all she went through! 
To leave her situation at once was impossible not only on account 
of the money debt, but also to spare the feelings of Marfa Petrovna, 
whose suspicions would have been aroused: and then Dounia would 
have been the cause of a rupture in the family. And it would have 
meant a terrible scandal for Dounia too; that would have been 
inevitable. There were various other reasons owing to which Dounia 
could not hope to escape from that awful house for another six 
weeks. You know Dounia, of course; you know how clever she is 
and what a strong will she has. Dounia can endure a great deal and 
even in the most difficult cases she has the fortitude to maintain her 
firmness. She did not even write to me about everything for fear 
of upsetting me, although we were constantly in communication. It 
all ended very unexpectedly. Marfa Petrovna accidentally overheard 
her husband imploring Dounia in the garden, and, putting quite a 
wrong interpretation on the position, threw the blame upon her, 
believing her to be the cause of it all. An awful scene took place 
between them on the spot in the garden; Marfa Petrovna went so 
far as to strike Dounia, refused to hear anything and was shouting 
at her for a whole hour and then gave orders that Dounia should 
be packed off at once to me in a plain peasant’s cart, into which they 
flung all her things, her linen and her clothes, all pell-mell, without 
folding it up and packing it. And a heavy shower of rain came on, 
too, and Dounia, insulted and put to shame, had to drive with a 
peasant in an open cart all the seventeen versts into town. Only 
think now what answer could I have sent to the letter I received 
from you two months ago and what could I have written? I was in 
despair; I dared not write to you the truth because you would have 
been very unhappy, mortified and indignant, and yet what could you 


do? You could only perhaps ruin yourself, and, besides, Dounia 
would not allow it; and fill up my letter with trifles when my heart 
was so full of sorrow, I could not. For a whole month the town 
was full of sorrow about this scandal, and it came to such a pass that 
Dounia and I dared not even go to church on account of the con- 
temptuous looks, whispers, and even remarks made aloud about us. 
All our acquaintances avoided us, nobody even bowed to us in the 
street, and I learnt that some shopmen and clerks were intending to 
insult us in a shameful way, smearing the gates of our house with 
pitch, so that the landlord began to tell us we must leave. All this 
was set going by Marfa Petrovna, who managed to slander Dounia 
and throw dirt at her in every family. She knows every one in the 
neighbourhood, and that month she was continually coming into 
the town, and as she is rather talkative and fond of gossiping about 
her family affairs and particularly of complaining to all and each 
of her husband—which is not at all right—so in a short time she 
had spread her story not only in the town, but over the whole sur- 
rounding district. It made me ill, but Dounia bore it better than I 
did, and if only you could have seen how she endured it all and tried 
to comfort me and cheer me up! She is an angel! But by God’s 
mercy, our sufferings were cut short: Mr. Svidrigailov returned to 
his senses and repented and, probably feeling sorry for Dounia, he 
laid before Marfa Petrovna a complete and unmistakable proof of 
Dounia’s innocence, in the form of a letter Dounia had been forced 
to write and give to him, before Marfa Petrovna came upon them in 
the garden. This letter, which remained in Mr. Svidrigailov’s hands 
after her departure, she had written to refuse personal explanations 
and secret interviews, for which he was entreating her. In that letter 
she reproached him with great heat and indignation for the baseness 
of his behaviour in regard to Marfa Petrovna, reminding him that 
he was the father and head of a family and telling him how infamous 
it was of him to torment and make unhappy a defenceless girl, un- 
happy enough already. Indeed, dear Rodya, the letter was so nobly 
and touchingly written that I sobbed when I read it and to this day 
I cannot read it without tears. Moreover, the evidence of the ser- 
vants, too, cleared Dounia’s reputation; they had seen and known 
a great deal more than Mr. Svidrigailov had himself supposed—as 
indeed is always the case with servants. Marfa Petrovna was com- 
pletely taken aback, and ‘again crushed’ as she said herself to us, 
but she was completely convinced of Dounia’s innocence. The very 
next day, being Sunday, she went straight to the Cathedral, knelt 
down and prayed with tears to Our Lady to give her strength to 
bear this new trial and to do her duty. Then she came straight from 
the Cathedral to us, told us the whole story, wept bitterly and, fully 
penitent, she embraced Dounia and besought her to forgive her. The 
same morning, without any delay, she went round to all the houses 
in the town and everywhere, shedding tears, she asserted in the most 
flattering terms Dounia’s innocence and the nobility of her feelings 
and her behaviour. What was more, she showed and read to every 
one the letter in Dounia’s own handwriting to Mr. Svidrigailov and 


even allowed them to take copies of it—which I must say I think 
was superfluous. In this way she was busy for several days in driving 
about the whole town, because some people had taken offence through 
precedence having been given to others. And therefore they had to 
take turns, so that in every house she was expected before she arrived, 
and every one knew that on such and such a day Marfa Petrovna 
would be reading the letter in such and such a place and people 
assembled for every reading of it, even many who had heard it 
several times already both in their own houses and in other people’s. 
In my opinion a great deal, a very great deal of all this was unneces- 
sary; but that’s Marfa Petrovna’s character. Anyway she succeeded , 
in completely re-establishing Dounia’s reputation and the whole” 
ignominy of this affair rested as an indelible disgrace upon her hus- 
band, as the only person to blame, so that I really began to feel sorry 
for him; it was really treating the crazy fellow too harshly. Dounia 
was at once asked to give lessons in several families, but she refused. 
All of a sudden every one began to treat her with marked respect and 
all this did much to bring about the event by which, one may say, our 
whole fortunes are now transformed. You must know, dear Rodya, 
that Dounia has a suitor and that she has already consented to marry 
him, I hasten to tell you all about the matter, and though it has been 
arranged without asking your counsel, I think you will not he ag- 
grieved with me or with your sister on that account, for you will see 
that we could not wait and put off our decision till we heard from 
you. And you could not have judged all the facts without being on 
the spot. This was how it happened. He is already of the rank of a 
counsellor, Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin, and is distantly related to Marfa 
Petrovna, who has been very active in bringing the match about. It 
began with his expressing through her his desire to make our acquaint- 
ance. He was properly received, drank coffee with us and the very 
next day he sent us a letter in which he very courteously made an 
offer and begged for a speedy and decided answer. He is a very busy 
man and is in a great hurry to get to Petersburg, so that every 
moment is precious to him. At first, of course, we were greatly sur- 
prised, as it had all happened so quickly and unexpectedly. We 
thought and talked it over the whole day. He is a well-to-do man, 
to be depended upon, he has two posts in the government and has 
already made his fortune. It is true that he is forty-five years old, 
but he is of a fairly prepossessing appearance, and might still be 
thought attractive by women, and he is altogether a very respectable 
and presentable man, only he seems a little morose and somewhat 
conceited. But possibly that may only be the impression he makes 
at first sight. And beware, dear Rodya, when he comes fo Petersburg, 
as he shortly will do, beware of judging him too hastily and severely, 
as your way is, if there is anything you do not like in him at first 
sight. I give you this warning, although I feel sure that he will make 
a favourable impression upon you. Moreover, in order to understand 
any man one must be deliberate and careful to avoid forming preju- 
dices and mistaken ideas, which are very difficult to correct and get 
over afterwards. And Pyotr Petrovitch, judging by many indications, 


is a thoroughly estimable man. At his first visit, indeed, he told us 
that he was a practical man, but still he shares, as he expressed it, 
many of the convictions ‘of our most rising generation’ and he is an 
opponent of all prejudices. He said a good deal more, for he seems 
a little conceited and likes to be listened to, but this is scarcely a vice. 
I, of course, understood very little of it, but Dounia explained to me 
that, though he is not a man of great education, he is clever and 
seems to be good-natured. You know your sister’s character, Rodya. 
She is a resolute, sensible, patient and generous girl, but she has 
a passionate heart, as I know very well. Of course, there is no great 
love either on his side, or on hers, but Dounia is a clever girl and 
has the heart of an angel, and will make it her duty to make her 
husband happy who on his side will make her happiness his care. 
Of that we have no good reason for doubt, though it must be admitted 
the matter has been arranged in great haste. Besides he is a man of 
great prudence and he will see, to be sure, of himself, that his own 
happiness will be the more secure, the happier Dounia is with him. 
And as for some defects of character, for some habits and even 
certain differences of opinions—which indeed are inevitable even in 
the happiest marriages—Dounia has said that, as regards all that, she 
relies on herself, that there is nothing to be uneasy about, and that 
she is ready to put up with a great deal, if only their future relation- 
ship can be an honourable and straightforward one. He struck me, 
for instance, at first, as rather abrupt, but that may well come from 
his being an outspoken man, and that is no doubt how it is. For 
instance, at his second visit, after he had received Dounia’s consent, 
in the course of conversation, he declared that before making Dounia’s 
acquaintance, he had made up his mind to marry a girl of good repu- 
tation, without dowry and, above all, one who had experienced pov- 
erty, because, as he explained, a man ought not to be indebted to 
his wife, but that it is better for a wife to look upon her husband as 
her benefactor. I must add that he expressed it more nicely and 
politely than I have done, for I have forgotten his actual phrases and 
only remember the meaning. And, besides, it was obviously not said 
of design, but slipped out in the heat of conversation, so that he tried 
afterwards to correct himself and smooth it over, but all the same 
it did strike me as somewhat rude, and I said so afterwards to 
Dounia. But Dounia was vexed, and answered that ‘words are not 
deeds,’ and that, of course, is perfectly true. Dounia did not sleep 
all night before she made up her mind, and, thinking that I was 
asleep, she got out of bed and was walking up and down the room all 
night; at last she knelt down before the ikon and prayed long and 
fervently and in the morning she told me that she had decided. 

I have mentioned already that Pyotr Petrovitch is just setting off 
for Petersburg, where he has a great deal of business, and he wants 
to cpen a legal bureau. He has been occupied for many years in 
conducting civil and commercial litigation, and only the other day 
he won an important case. He has to be in Petersburg because he 
has an important case before the Senate. So, Rodya dear, he may 
be of the greatest use to you, in every way indeed, and Dounia and 


I have agreed that from this very day you could definitely enter upon 
your career and might consider that your future is marked out and 
assured for you. Oh, if only this comes to pass! This would be 
such a benefit that we could only look upon it as a providential bless- 
ing. Dounia is dreaming of nothing else. We have even ventured 
already to drop a few words on the subject to Pyotr Petrovitch. 
He was cautious in his answer, and said that, of course, as he could 
not get on without a secretary, it would be better to be paying a 
salary to a relation than to a stranger, if only the former were fitted 
for the duties (as though there could be doubt of your being fitted !) 
but then he expressed doubts whether your studies at the university 
would leave you time for work at his office. The matter dropped for 
the time, but Dounia is thinking of nothing else now. She has been 
in a sort of fever for the last few days, and has already made a 
regular plan for your becoming in the end an associate and even a 
partner in Pyotr Petrovitch’s legal business, which might well be, 
seeing that you are a student of law. I am in complete agreement 
with her, Rodya, and share all her plans and hopes, and think there 
is every probability of realising them. And in spite of Pyotr Petro- 
vitch’s evasiveness, very natural at present, (since he does not know 
you) Dounia is firmly persuaded that she will gain everything by her 
good influence over her future husband; this she is reckoning upon. 
Of course we are careful not to talk of any of these more remote 
plans to Pyotr Petrovitch, especially of your becoming his partner. 
He is a practical man and might take this very coldly, it might all 
seem to him simply a day-dream. Nor has either Dounia or I 
‘breathed a word to him of the great hopes we have of his helping us 
to pay for your university studies; we have not spoken of it in the 
first place, because it will come to pass of itself, later on, and he will 
no doubt without wasting words offer to do it of himself, (as though 
he could refuse Dounia that) the more readily since you may by your 
own efforts become his right hand in the office and receive this as- 
sistance not as a charity, but as a salary earned by your own work. 
Dounia wants to arrange it all like this and I quite agree with her. 
And we have not spoken of our plans for another reason, that is, . 
because I particularly wanted you to feel on an equal footing when 
you first meet him. When Dounia spoke to him with entuusiasm 
about you, he answered that one could never judge of a man without 
seeing him close, for oneself, and that he looked forward to forming 
his own opinion when he makes your acquaintance. Do you know, 
my precious Rodya, I think that perhaps for some reasons (nothing 
to do with Pyotr Petrovitch though, simply for my own personal, 
perhaps old-womanish, fancies) I should do better to go on living by 
myself, apart, than with them, after the wedding. I am- convinced 
that he will be generous and delicate enough to invite me and to 
urge me to remain with my daughter for the future, and if he has 
said nothing about it hitherto, it is simply because it has been taken 
for granted; but I shall refuse. I have noticed more than once in 
my life that husbands don’t quite get on with their mothers-in-law, 
and I don’t want to be the least bit in any one’s way, and for my 


own sake, too, would rather be quite independent, so long as I have 
a crust of bread of my own, and such children as you and Dounia. 
If possible, I would settle somewhere near you, for the most joyful 
piece of news, dear Rodya, I have kept for the end of my letter: 
know then, my dear boy, that we may perhaps be all together in a 
very short time and may embrace one another again after a separation 
of almost three years! It is settled for certain that Dounia and I 
are to set off for Petersburg, exactly when I don’t know, but very, 
very soon, possibly in a week. It all depends on Pyotr Petrovitch 
who will let us know when he has had time to look round him in 
Petersburg. To suit his own arrangements he is anxious to have the 
ceremony as soon as possible, even before the fast of Our Lady, if 
it could be managed, or if that is too soon to be ready, immediately 
after. Oh, with what happiness I shall press you to my heart! Dounia 
is all excitement at the joyful thought of seeing you, she said one 
day in joke that she would be ready to marry Pyortr Petrovitch for 
that alone. She is an angel! She is not writing anything to you now, 
and has only told me to write that she has so much, so much to tell 
you that she is not going to take up her pen now, for a few lines 
would tell you nothing, and it would only mean upsetting herself; 
she bids me send you her love and innumerable kisses. But although 
we shall be meeting so soon, perhaps I shall send you as much money 
as I can in a day or two. Now that every one has heard that Dounia 
is to marry Pyotr Petrovitch, my credit has suddenly improved and 
I know that Afanasy Ivanovitch will trust me now even to seventy- 
five roubles on the security of my pension, so that perhaps I shall 
be able to send you twenty-five or even thirty roubles. I would send 
you more, but I am uneasy about our travelling expenses; for though 
Pyotr Petrovitch has been so kind as to undertake part of the ex- 
penses of the journey, that is to say, he has taken upon himself the 
conveyance of our bags and big trunk (which will be conveyed through 
some acquaintances of his), we must reckon upon some expense on 
our arrival in Petersburg, where we can’t be left without a halfpenny, 
at least for the first few days. But we have calculated it all, Dounia 
and I, to the last penny, and we see that the journey will not cost 
very much. It is only ninety versts from us to the railway and we 
have come to an agreement with a driver we know, so as to be in 
readiness; and from there Dounia and I can travel quite comfortably 
third class. So that I may very likely be able to send to you not 
twenty-five, but thirty roubles. But enough; I have covered two 
sheets already and there is no space left for more; our whole history, 
but so many events have happened! And now, my precious Rodya, 
I embrace you and send you a mother’s blessing till we meet. Love 
Dounia your sister, Rodya; love her as she loves you and understand 
that she loves you beyond everything, more than herself. She is 
an angel and you, Rodya, you are everything to us—our one hope, 
our one consolation. If only you are happy, we shall be happy. Do 
you still say your prayers, Rodya, and believe in the mercy of our 
Creator and our Redeemer? I am afraid in my heart that you may 
have been visited by the new spirit of infidelity that is abroad to-day! 


If it is so, I pray for you. Remember, dear boy, how in your child- 
hood, when your father was living, you used to lisp your prayers at 
my knee, and how happy we all were in those days. Good-bye, till 
we meet then—I embrace you warmly, warmly, with many kisses. 
“Yours till death 

Almost from the first, while he read the letter, Raskolni- 
kov’s face was wet with tears; but when he finished it, his 
face was pale and distorted and a bitter, wrathful and malig- _ 
nant smile was on his lips. He laid his head down on his” 
threadbare dirty pillow and pondered, pondered a long time. 
His heart was beating violently, and his brain was in a tur- 
moil, At last he felt cramped and stifled in the little yellow 
room that was like a cupboard or a box. His eyes and his 
mind craved for space. He took up his hat and went out, this 
time without dread of meeting any one; he had forgotten 
his dread. He turned in the direction of the Vassilyevsky 
Ostrov, walking along Vassilyevsky Prospect, as though has- 
tening on some business, but he walked, as his habit was, 
without noticing his way, muttering and even speaking aloud 
to himself, to the astonishment of the passers-by. Many of 
them took him to be drunk. 


IS mother’s letter had been a torture to him, but as 
H regards the chief fact in it, he had felt not one 

moment’s hesitation, even whilst he was reading the 
letter. The essential question was settled, and irrevocably 
settled, in his mind: “Never such a marriage while I am 
alive and Mr. Luzhin be damned!” “The thing is perfectly 
clear,” he muttered to himself, with a malignant smile an- 
ticipating the triumph of his decision. “No, mother, no, 
Dounia, you won’t deceive me! and then they apologise for 
not asking my advice and for taking the decision without 
me! I dare say! They imagine it is arranged now and 
can’t be broken off; but we will see whether it can or not! 
A magnificent excuse: ‘Pyotr Petrovitch is such a busy 
man that even his wedding has to be in post-haste, almost 
by express.’ No, Dounia, I see it all and I know what you 
want to say to me; and I know too what you were thinking 
about, when you walked up and down all night, and what 
your prayers were like before the Holy Mother of Kazan 
who stands in mother’s bedroom. Bitter is the ascent to 
Golgotha.... Hm... so it is finally settled; you have 
determined to marry a sensible business man, Avdotya 
Romanovna, one who has a fortune (has already made 
his fortune, that is so much more solid and impressive) a 
man who holds two government posts and who shares the 
ideas of our most rising generation, as mother writes, and 
who seems to be kind, as Dounia herself observes. That 
seems beats everything! And that very Dounia for that 
‘very ‘seems’ is marrying him! Splendid! splendid! 

“..» But I should like to know why mother has written 
to me about ‘our most rising generation’? Simply as a 
descriptive touch, or with the idea of prepossessing me in 
favour of Mr. Luzhin? Oh, the cunning of them! I should 
like to know one thing more: how far they were open with 
one another that day and night and all this time since? Was 



it all put into words, or did both understand that they had 
the same thing at heart and in their minds, so that there 
was no need to speak of it aloud, and better not to speak 
of it. Most likely it was partly like that, from mother’s 
letter it’s evident: he struck her as rude a little, and mother 
in her simplicity took her observations to Dounia. And she 
was sure to be vexed and ‘answered her angrily.’ I should 
think so! Who would not be angered when it was quite 
clear without any naive questions and when it was under- 
stood that it was useless to discuss it. And why does she 
write to me, ‘love Dounia, Rodya, and she loves you more 
than herself’? Has she a secret conscience-prick at sacri- 
ficing her daughter to her son? ‘You are our one comfort, 
you are everything to us.’ Oh, mother!” 

His bitterness grew more and more intense, and if he 
had happened to meet Mr. Luzhin at the moment, he might 
have murdered him. 

“Hm... yes, that’s true,” he continued, pursuing the 
whirling ideas that chased each other in his brain, “it is 
true that ‘it needs time and care to get to know a man,’ but 
there is no mistake about Mr. Luzhin. The chief thing is 
he is ‘a man of business and seems kind, that was some- 
thing, wasn’t it, to send the bags and big box for them! A 
kind man, no doubt after that! But his bride and her 
mother are to drive in a peasant’s cart covered with sack- 
ing (I know, I have been driven in it). No matter! It is 
only ninety versts and then they can ‘travel very comfort- 
ably, third class,’ for a thousand versts! Quite right, too. 
One must cut one’s coat according to one’s cloth, but what 
about you, Mr. Luzhin? She is your bride. ... And you 
must be aware that her mother has to raise money on her 
pension for the journey. To be sure it’s a matter of busi- 
ness, a partnership for mutual benefit, with equal shares 
and expenses :—food and drink provided, but pay for your 
tobacco. The business man has got the better of them, too. 
The luggage will cost less than their fares and very likely 
go for nothing. How is it that they don’t both see all that, 
or is it that they don’t want to see? And they are pleased, 
pleased! And to think that this is only the first blossoming, 
and that the real fruits are to come! But what really 


matters is not the stinginess, is not the meanness, but the 
tone of the whole thing. For that will be the tone after 
‘marriage, it’s a foretaste of it. And mother too, why should 
she be so lavish? What will she have by the time she 
gets to Petersburg? Three silver roubles or two ‘paper 
ones’ as she says.... that old What 
does she expect to live upon in Petersburg afterwards? 
She has her reasons already for guessing that she could not 
live with Dounia after the marriage, even for the first few 
months, The good man has no doubt let slip something on 
that subject also, though mother would deny it: ‘I shall 
refuse,’ says she. On whom is she reckoning then? Is she 
counting on what is left of her hundred and twenty roubles 
of pension when Afanasy Ivanovitch’s debt is paid? She 
knits woollen shawls and embroiders cuffs, ruining her old 
eyes. And all her shawls don’t add more than twenty 
roubles a year to her hundred and twenty, I know that. 
So she is building all her hopes all the time on Mr. Luzhin’s 
generosity; ‘he will offer it of himself, he will press it on 
me. You may wait a long time for that! That’s how it 
always is with these Schilleresque noble hearts; till the last 
moment every goose is a swan with them, till the last 
moment, they hope for the best and will see nothing wrong, 
and although they have an inkling of the other side of the 
picture, yet they won’t face the truth till they are forced to; 
the very thought of it makes them shiver; they thrust the 
truth away with both hands, until the man they deck out 
in false colours puts a fool’s cap on them with his own 
hands. I should like to know whether Mr. Luzhin has any 
orders of merit; I bet he has the Anna in his buttonhole 
and that he puts it on when he goes to dine with contractors 
or merchants. He will be sure to have it for his wedding, 
too! Enough of him, confound him! 

“Well, .. . mother I don’t wonder at, it’s like her, God 
bless her, but how could Dounia? Dounia, darling, as 
though I did not know you! You were nearly twenty when 
I saw you last: I understand you then. Mother writes 
that ‘Dounia can put up with a great deal.’ I know that 
very well. I knew that two years and a half ago, and for 
the last two and a half years I have been thinking about it, 



thinking of just that, that ‘Dounia can put up with a great 
deal.’ If she could put up with Mr. Svidrigailov and all the 
rest of it, she certainly can put up with a great deal. And 
now mother and she have taken it into their heads that she 
can put up with Mr. Luzhin, who propounds the theory of 
the superiority of wives raised from destitution and owing 
everything to their husband’s bounty—who propounds it, 
too, almost at the first interview. Granted that he ‘let it 
slip,’ though he is a sensible man, (yet maybe it was not a 
slip at all, but he meant to make himself clear as soon 
as possible) but Dounia, Dounia? She understands the 
man, of course, but she will have to live with the man, 
Why! she’d live on black bread and water, she would not 
sell her soul, she would not barter her moral freedom for 
comfort; she would not barter it for all Schleswig-Holstein, 
much less Mr. Luzhin’s money. No, Dounia was not that 
sort when I knew her and... she is still the same, of 
course! Yes, there’s no denying, the Svidrigailovs are a 
bitter pill! It’s bitter thing to spend one’s life a gover- 
ness in the provinces for two hundred roubles, but I know 
she would rather be a nigger on a plantation or a Lett with 
a German master, than degrade her soul, and her moral 
dignity, by binding herself for ever to a man whom she 
does not respect and with whom she has nothing in com- 
mon—for her own advantage. And if Mr. Luzhin had 
been of unalloyed gold, or one huge diamond, she would 
never have consented to become his legal concubine. Why 
is she consenting then? What’s the point of it? What’s 
the answer? It’s clear enough: for herself, for her com- 
fort, to save her life she would not sell herself, but for 
some one else she is doing it! For one she loves, for one 
she adores, she will sell herself! That’s what it all amounts 
to; for her brother, for her mother, she will sell herself! 
She will sell everything! In such cases, we ‘overcome our 
moral feeling if necessary,’ freedom, peace, conscience even, 
all, all are brought into the market. Let my life go, if only 
my dear ones may be happy! More than that, we become 
casuists, we learn to be Jesuitical and for a time maybe 
we can soothe ourselves, we can persuade ourselves that it 
is one’s duty for a good object. That’s just like us, it’s as 


clear as daylight. It’s clear that Rodion Romanovitch Ras- 
kolnikov is the central figure in the business, and no one 
else. Oh yes, she can ensure his happiness, keep him in 
the university, make him a partner in the office, make his 
whole future secure; perhaps he may even be a rich 
man later on, prosperous, respected, and may even end his 
life a famous man! But my mother? It’s all Rodya, pre- 
cious Rodya, her firstborn! For such a son who would not 
sacrifice such a daughter! Oh, loving, over-partial hearts! 
Why, for his sake we would not shrink even from Sonia’s 
fate. Sonia, Sonia Marmeladov, the eternal victim so long 
as the world lasts. Have you taken the measure of your 
sacrifice, both of you? Is it right? Can you bear it? 
Is it any use? Is there sense in it? And let me tell you, 
Dounia, Sonia’s life is no worse than life with Mr. Luzhin. 
‘There can be no question of love’ mother writes. And 
what if there can be no respect either, if on the contrary 
there is aversion, contempt, repulsion, what then? So 
you will have to ‘keep up your appearance,’ too. Is not that 
so? Do you understand what that smartness means? Do 
you understand that the Luzhin smartness is just the same 
thing as Sonia’s and may be worse, viler, baser, because in 
your case, Dounia, it’s a bargain for luxuries, after all, but 
with Sonia it’s simply a question of starvation. It has to be 
paid for, it has to be paid for, Dounia, this smartness. And 
what if it’s more than you can bear afterwards, if you re- 
gret it? The bitterness, the misery, the curses, the tears 
hidden from all the world, for you are not a Marfa Pe- 
trovna. And how will your mother feel then? Even now 
she is uneasy, she is worried, but then, when she sees it all 
clearly? And I? Yes, indeed, what have you taken me 
for? I won’t have your sacrifice, Dounia, I won’t have it, 
mother! It shall not be, so long as I am alive, it shail not, 
it shall not! I won’t accept it!” 

He suddenly paused in his reflections and stood still. 

“It shall not be? But what are you going to do to pre- 
vent it? You'll forbid it? And what right have you? 
What can you promise them on your side to give you such 
a right? Your whole life, your whole future, you will de- 
vote to them when you have finished your studies and ob- 


tained a post? Yes, we have heard all that before, and 
that’s all words, but now? Now something must be done, 
now do you understand that? And what are you doing now? 
You are living upon them. They borrow on their hundred 
roubles pension. They borrow from the Svidrigailovs. How 
are you going to save them from Svidrigailovs, from Afanasy 
Ivanovitch Vahrushin, oh, future millionaire Zeus who 
would arrange their lives for them? In another ten years? 
In another ten years, mother will be blind with knitting 
shawls, maybe with weeping too. She will be worn t6 a 
shadow with fasting; and my sister? Imagine for a 
moment what may have become of your sister in ten years? 
What may happen to her during those ten years? Can 
you fancy?” . 

So he tortured himself, fretting himself with such ques- 
tions, and finding a kind of enjoyment in it. And yet all 
these questions were not new ones suddenly confronting him, 
they were old familiar aches. It was long since they had 
first begun to grip and rend his heart. Long, long ago his 
present anguish had its first beginnings; it had waxed and 
gathered strength, it had matured and concentrated, until 
it had taken the form of a fearful, frenzied and fantastic 
question, which tortured his heart and his mind, clamouring 
insistently for an answer. Now his mother’s letter had 
burst on him like a thunderclap. It was clear that he must 
not now suffer passively, worrying himself over unsolved 
questions, but that he must do something, do it at once, 
and do it quickly. Anyway he must decide on something, 
or ¢ise:')/'.". 

“Or throw up life altogether!” he cried suddenly, in a 
frenzy— “accept one’s lot humbly as it is, once for all and 
stifle everything in oneself, giving up all claim to activity, 
life and love!” 

“Do you understand, sir, do you understand what it 
means when you have absolutely nowhere to turn?” Mar- 
meladov’s question came suddenly into his mind “for every 
man must have somewhere to turn... .” 

He gave a sudden start: another thought, that he had had 
yesterday, slipped back into his mind. But he did not start 
at the thought recurring to him, for he knew, he had felt 


beforehand, that it must come back, he was expecting it; 
besides it was not only yesterday’s thought. The differ- 
ence was that a month ago, yesterday even, the thought was 
a mere dream: but now ... now it appeared not a dream 
at all, it had taken a new menacing and quite unfamiliar 
shape, and he suddenly became aware of this himself... . 
He felt a hammering in his head, and there was a dark- 
ness before his eyes. 

He looked round hurriedly, he was searching for some- 
thing. He wanted to sit down and was looking for a seat; 
he was walking along the K Boulevard. There was 
a seat about a hundred paces in front of him. He walked 
towards it as fast as he could; but on the way he met with 
a little adventure which absorbed all his attention. Look- 
ing for the seat, he had noticed a woman walking some 
twenty paces in front of him, but at first he took no more 
notice of her than of other objects that crossed his path. It 
had happened to him many times going home not to notice 
the road by which he was going, and he was accustomed 
to walk like that. But there was at first sight something 
so strange about the woman in front of him, that gradually 
his attention was riveted upon her, at first reluctantly and, 
as it were, resentfully, and then more and more intently. 
He felt a sudden desire to find out what it was that was so 
strange about the woman. In the first place, she appeared 
to be a girl quite young, and she was walking in the great 
heat bareheaded and with no parasol or gloves, waving her 
arms about in an absurd way. She had on a dress of some 
light silky material, but put on strangely awry, not properly 
hooked up, and torn open at the top of the skirt, close to the 
waist: a great piece was rent and hanging loose. A little 
kerchief was flung about her bare throat, but lay slanting on 
one side. The girl was walking unsteadily, too, stumbling 
and staggering from side to side. She drew Raskolnikov’s 
whole attention at last. He overtook the girl at the seat, 
but, on reaching it, she dropped down on it, in the corner; 
she let her head sink on the back of the seat and closed her 
eyes, apparently in extreme exhaustion. Looking at her 
closely, he saw at once that she was completely drunk. It 
was a strange and shocking sight. He could hardly believe 


that he was not mistaken. He saw before him the face of a 
quite young, fairhaired girl—sixteen, perhaps not more than 
fifteen, years old, a pretty little face, but flushed and heavy 
looking and, as it were, swollen. The girl seemed hardly to 
know what she was doing; she crossed one leg over the 
other, lifting it indecorously, and showed every sign of 
being unconscious that she was in the street. 

Raskolnikov did not sit down, but he felt unwilling to 
leave her, and stood facing her in perplexity. This boule- 
vard was never much frequented; and now, at two o’clock, 
in the stifling heat, it was quite deserted. And yet on the 
further side of the boulevard, about fifteen paces away, a 
gentleman was standing on the edge of the pavement, he, 
too, would apparently have liked to approach the girl with 
some object of his own. He, too, had probably seen her in 
the distance and had followed her, but found Raskolnikov 
in his way. He looked angrily at him, though he tried to 
escape his notice, and stood impatiently biding his time, 
till the unwelcome man in rags should have moved away. 
His intentions were unmistakable. The gentleman was a 
plump, thickly-set man, about thirty, fashionably dressed, 
with a high colour, red lips and moustaches. Raskolnikov 
felt furious; he had a sudden longing to insult this fat dandy 
in some way. He left the girl for a moment and walked 
towards the gentleman. 

“Hey! You Svidrigailov! What do you want here?” 
he shouted, clenching his fists and laughing, spluttering with 

“What do you mean?” the gentleman asked sternly, scowl- 
ing in haughty astonishment. 

“Get away, that’s what I mean.” 

“How dare you, you low fellow!” 

He raised his cane. Raskolnikov rushed at him with his 
fists, without reflecting that the stout gentleman was a 
match for two men like himself. But at that instant some 
one seized him from behind, and a police constable stood 
between them. 

“That’s enough, gentlemen, no fighting, please, in a public 
place. What do you want? Who are you?” he asked Ras- 
kolnikov sternly, noticing his rags. 


_ Raskolnikov looked at him intently. He had a straight- 
forward, sensible, soldierly face, with grey moustaches and 

“You are just the man I want,” Raskolnikov cried, catch- 
ing at his arm. “I am a student, Raskolnikov.... You 
may as well know that too,” he added, addressing the gen- 
tleman, “come along, I have something to show you.” 

And taking the policeman by the hand he drew him 
towards the seat. 

“Look here, hopelessly drunk, and she has just come down 
the boulevard. There is no telling who and what she is, 
she does not look like a professional. It’s more likely she 
has been given drink and deceived somewhere ... for the 
first time . . . you understand? and they’ve put her out into 
the street like that. Look at the way her dress is torn, and 
the way it has been put on: she has been dressed by some- 
body, she has not dressed herself, and dressed by un- 
practised hands, by a man’s hands; that’s evident. And now 
look there: I don’t know that dandy with whom I was 
going to fight, I see him for the first time, but, he, too 
has seen her on the road, just now, drunk, not knowing what 
she is doing, and now he is very eager to get hold of her, 
to get her away somewhere while she is in this state... 
that’s certain, believe me, I am not wrong. I saw him my- 
self watching her and following her, but I prevented him, 
and he is just waiting for me to go away. Now he has 
walked away a little, and is standing still, pretending to 
make a cigarette.... Think how can we keep her out 
of his hands, and how are we to get her home?” 

The policeman saw it all in a flash. The stout gentleman 
was easy to understand, he turned ‘to consider the girl. 
The policeman bent over to examine her more closely, and 
his face worked with genuine compassion. 

“Ah, what a pity!’ he said, shaking his head—“why, she 
is quite a child! She has been deceived, you can see that 
at once. Listen, lady,” he began addressing her, “where 
do you live?” The girl opened her weary and sleepy-looking 
eyes, gazed blankly at the speaker and waved her hand. 

“Here,” said Raskolnikov feeling in his pocket and find- 
ing twenty copecks, “here, call a cab and tell him to drive 


her to her address. The only thing is to find out her 
address !” 

“Missy, missy!” the policeman began again, taking the 
money. “I'll fetch you a cab and take you home myself. 
Where shall I take you, eh? Where do you live?” 

“Go away! They won’t let me alone,” the girl muttered, 
and once more waved her hand. 

“Ach, ach, how shocking! It’s shameful, missy, it’s a 
shame!” He shook his head again, shocked, sympathetic 
and indignant. 

“It’s a difficult job,” the policeman said to Raskolnikov, 
and as he did so, he looked him up and down in a rapid 
glance. He, too, must have seemed a strange figure to him: 
dressed in rags and handing him money! 

“Did you meet her far from here?” he asked him. 

“T tell you she was walking in front of me, staggering, 
just here, in the boulevard. She only just reached the 
seat and sank down on it.” 

“Ah, the shameful things that are done in the world 
nowadays, God have mercy on us! An innocent creature 
like that, drunk already! She has been deceived, that’s 
a sure thing. See how her dress has been torn too.... 
Ah, the vice one sees nowadays! And as likely as not she 
belongs to gentlefolk too, poor ones maybe.... There 
are many like that nowadays. She looks refined, too, as 
though she were a lady,” and he bent over her once more. 

Perhaps he had daughters growing up like that, “looking 
like ladies and refined” with pretensions to gentility and 

“The chief thing is,” Raskolnikov persisted, “to keep her 
out of this scoundrel’s hands! Why should he outrage her! 
It’s as clear as day what he is after; ah, the brute, he is 
not moving off!” 

Raskolnikov spoke aloud and pointed to him. The gentle- 
man heard him, and seemed about to fly into a rage again, 
but thought better of it, and confined himself to a con- 
temptuous look. He then walked slowly another ten paces 
away and again halted. 

“Keep her out of his hands we can,” said the constable 
thoughtfully, “if only she’d tell us where to take her, but 


!”? he bent over her once 

as it is.... Missy, hey, missy 

She opened her eyes fully all of a sudden, looked at him 
intently, as though realising something, got up from the 
seat and walked away in the direction from which she had 
come. “Oh shameful wretches, they won’t let me alone!” 
she said, waving her hand again. She walked quickly, 
though staggering as before. The dandy followed her, 
but along another avenue, keeping his eye on her. 

“Don’t be anxious, I won’t let him have her,” the police- 
man said resolutely, and he set off after them. 

“Ah, the vice one sees nowadays!” he repeated aloud, 

At that moment something seemed to sting Raskolnikov; 
in an instant a complete revulsion of feeling came over him. 

“Hey, here!’ he shouted after the policeman. 

The latter turned round. 

“Let them be! What is it to do with you? Let her go! 
Let him amuse himself.” He pointed at the dandy, “What 
is it to do with you?” 

The policeman was bewildered, and stared at him open- 
eyed. Raskolnikov laughed. 

“Well!” ejaculated the policeman, with a gesture of con- 
tempt, and he walked after the dandy and the girl, probably 
taking Raskolnikov for a madman or something even worse. 

“He has carried off my twenty copecks,” Raskolnikov 
murmured angrily when he was left alone. “Well, let him 
take as much from the other fellow to allow him to have 
the girl and so let it end. And why did I want to interfere? 
Is it for me to help? Have I any right to help? Let them 
devour each other alive—what is it to me? How did I 
dare to give him twenty copecks? Were they mine?” 

In spite of those strange words he felt very wretched. 
He sat down on the deserted seat. His thoughts strayed 
aimlessly. ... He found it hard to fix his mind on any- 
thing at that moment. He longed to forget himself 
altogether, to forget everything, and then to wake up and 
begin life anew. ... 

“Poor girl!” he said, looking at the empty corner where 
she had sat—*“She will come to herself and weep, and then 


her mother will find out.... She will give her a beating, 
a horrible, shameful beating and then maybe, turn her out 
of doors.... And even if she does not, the Darya 
Frantsovnas will get wind of it, and the girl will soon be 
slipping out on the sly here and there. Then there will be 
the hospital directly (that’s always the luck of those girls 
with respectable mothers, who go wrong on the sly) 
and then ...again the hospital... drink... the 
taverns ... and more hospital, in two or three years-—a 
wreck, and her life over at eighteen or nineteen. ... Have 
not I seen cases like that? And how have they been brought 
to it? Why, they’ve all come to it like that. Ugh! But 
what does it matter? That’s as it should be, they tell us. 
A certain percentage, they tell us, must every year go... 
that way ... to the devil, I suppose, so that the rest may 
remain chaste, and not be interfered with. A percentage! 
What splendid words they have; they are so scientific, so 
consolatory.... Once you’ve said ‘percentage,’ there’s 
nothing more to worry about. If we had any other 
word ... maybe we might feel more uneasy.... But 
what if Dounia were one of the percentage! Of another 
one if not that one? 

“But where am I going?” he thought suddenly. “Strange. 
I came out for something. As soon as J had read the letter 
I came out....I was going to Vassilyevsky Ostrov, to 
Razumihin. That’s what it was I remember. 
What for, though? And what put the idea of going to 
Razumihin into my head just now? That’s curious.” 

He wondered at himself. Razumihin was one of his old 
comrades at the university. It was remarkable that 
Raskolnikov had hardly any friends at the university; he 
kept aloof from every one, went to see no one, and did 
not welcome any one who came to see him, and indeed 
every one soon gave him up. . He took no part in the 
students’ gatherings, amusements or conversations. He 
worked with great intensity without sparing himself, and 
he was respected for this, but no one liked him. He was 
very poor, and there was a sort of haughty pride and 
reserve about him, as though he were keeping something 
to himself. He seemed to some of his comrades to look 


down upon them all as children, as though he were superior 
in development, knowledge and convictions, as though their 
beliefs and interests were beneath him. 

With Razumihin he had got on, or, at least, he was more 
unreserved and communicative with him. Indeed it was 
impossible to be on any other terms with Razumihin. He 
was an exceptionally good-humoured and candid youth, 
good-natured to the point of simplicity, though both depth 
and dignity ley concealed under that simplicity. The better 
of his comrades understood this, and all were fond of him. | 
He was extremely intelligent, though he was certainly 
rather a simpleton at times. He was of striking appearance 
—tall, thin, black-haired and always badly shaved. He was 
sometimes uproarious and was reputed to be of great 
physical strength. One night, when out in a festive com- 
pany, he had with one blow laid a gigantic policeman on 
his back. There was no limit to his drinking powers, but 
he could abstain from drink altogether; he sometimes went 
too far in his pranks; but he could do without pranks 
altogether. Another thing striking about Razumihin, no 
failure distressed him, and it seemed as though no 
unfavourable circumstances could crush him. He could 
lodge anywhere, and bear the extremes of cold and hunger, 
He was very poor, and kept himself entirely on what he 
could earn by work of one sort or another. He knew of 
no end of resources by which to earn money. He spent 
one whole winter without lighting his stove, and used to 
declare that he liked it better, because one slept more 
soundly in the cold. For the present he, too, had been 
obliged to give up the university, but it was only for a time, 
and he was working with all his might to save enough to 
return to his studies again. Raskolnikov had not been to 
see him for the last four months, and Razumihin did not 
even know his address. About two months before, they 
had met in the street, but Raskolnikov had turned away 
and even crossed to the other side that he might not be 
observed. And though Razumihin noticed him, he passed 
him by, as he did not want to annoy him. 


* F course, I’ve been meaning lately to go to 
Razumihin’s to ask for work, to ask him to get me 
lessons or something...’ Raskolnikov thought, 

“but what help can he be to me now? Suppose he gets me 

lessons, suppose he shares his last farthing with me, if 

he has any farthings, so that I could get some boots and 
make myself tidy enough to give 

Well and what then? What shall I do with the few coppers 

I earn? That’s not what I want now. It’s really absurd 

for me to go to Razumihin. .. .” 

The question why he was now going to Razumihin 
agitated him even more than he was himself aware; he kept 
uneasily seeking for some sinister significance in this 
apparently ordinary action. 

“Could I have expected to set it all straight and to find 
a way out by means of Razumihin alone?” he asked himself 
in perplexity. 

He pondered and rubbed his forehead, and, strange to say, 
after long musing, suddenly, as it were spontaneously and 
by chance, a fantastic thought came into his head. 

“Hm... to Razumihin’s,’ he said all at once, calmly, 
as though he had reached a final determination. “I shall 
go to Razumihin’s of course, but... not now. I shall 
go to him ...on the next day after It, when It will be 
over and everything will begin afresh... .” 

And suddenly he realised what he was thinking. 

“After It,’ he shouted, jumping up from the seat, “but 
is It really going to happen? Is it possible it really will 
happen?” He left the seat, and went off almost at a run; 
he meant to turn back, homewards, but the thought of 
going home suddenly filled him with intense loathing; in 
that hole, in that awful little cupboard of his, all this had 
for a month past been growing up in him; and he walked 

on at random. 


His nervous shudder had passed into a fever that made 
him feel shivering; in spite of the heat he felt cold. With 
a kind of effort he began almost unconsciously, from some 
inner craving, to stare at all the objects before him, as 
though looking for something to distract his attention; but 
he did not succeed, and kept dropping every moment into 
brooding. When with a start he lifted his head again and 
looked round, he forgot at once what he had just been 
thinking about and even where he was going. In this 
way he walked right across Vassilyevsky Ostrov, came out 
on to the Lesser Neva, crossed the bridge and turned 
towards the islands. The greenness and freshness were at 
first restful to his weary eyes after the dust of the town 
and the huge houses that hemmed him in and weighed 
upon him. Here there were no taverns, no stifling close- 
ness, no stench. But soon these new pleasant sensations 
passed into morbid irritability. Sometimes he stood still 
before a brightly painted summer villa standing among 
green foliage, he gazed through the fence, he saw in the 
distance smartly dressed women on the verandahs and 
balconies, and children running in the gardens. The flowers 
especially caught his attention; he gazed at them longer 
than at anything. He was met, too, by luxurious carriages 
and by men and women on horseback; he watched them 
with curious eyes and forgot about them before they had 
vanished from his sight. Once he stood still and counted 
his money; he found he had thirty copecks. “Twenty to 
the policeman, three to Nastasya for the letter, so I must 
have given forty-seven or fifty to the Marmeladovs 
yesterday,” he thought, reckoning it up for some unknown 
reason, but he soon forgot with what object he had taken 
the money out of his pocket. He recalled it on passing 
an eating-house or tavern, and felt that he was 
hungry. ... Going into the tavern he drank a glass of 
vodka and ate a pie of some sort. He finished eating it 
as he walked away. It was a !ong while since he had 
taken vodka and it had an effect upon him at once, though 
he only drank a wine-glassful. His legs felt suddenly 
heavy and a great drowsiness came upon him. He turned 
homewards, but reaching Petrovsky Ostrov he stopped com- 


pletely exhausted, turned off the road into the bushes, sank 
down upon the grass and instantly fell asleep. 

In a morbid condition of the brain, dreams often have a 
singular actuality, vividness and extraordinary semblance 
of reality. At times monstrous images are created, but the 
setting and the whole picture are so truthlike and filled 
with details so delicate, so unexpected, but so artistically 
consistent, that the dreamer, were he an artist like Pushkin 
or Turgenev even, could never have invented them in the 
waking state. Such sick dreams always remain long in the 
memory and make a powerful impression on the over- 
wrought and deranged nervous system. 

Raskolnikov had a fearful dream. He dreamt he was 
back in his childhood in the little town of his birth. He 
was a child about seven years old, walking into the country 
with his father on the evening of a holiday. It was a 
grey and heavy day, the country was exactly as he 
remembered it; indeed he recalled it far more vividly in 
his dream than he had done in memory. The little town 
stood on a level flat as bare as the hand, not even a willow 
near it; only in the far distance, a copse lay, a dark blur 
on the very edge of the horizon. A few paces beyond the 
last market garden stood a tavern, a big tavern, which had 
always aroused in him a feeling of aversion, even of fear, 
when he walked by it with his father. There was always 
a crowd there, always shouting, laughter and abuse, hide- 
ous hoarse singing and often fighting. Drunken and 
horrible-looking figures were hanging about the tavern. 
He used to cling close to his father, trembling all over when 
he met them. Near the tavern the road became a dusty 
track, the dust of which was always black. It was a 
winding road, and about a hundred paces further on, it 
turned to the right to the graveyard. In the middle of the 
graveyard stood a stone church with a green cupola where 
he used to go to mass two or three times a year with his 
father and mother, when a service was held in memory 
of his grandmother, who had long been dead, and whom 
he had never seen. _On these occasions they used to take 
on a white dish tied up in a table napkin a special sort 
of rice pudding with raisins stuck in it in the shape of 


a cross. He loved that church, the old-fashioned, un- 
adorned ikons and the old priest with the shaking head. 
Near his grandmother’s grave, which was marked by a 
stone, was the little grave of his younger brother who had 
died at six months old. He did not remember him at all, 
but he had been told about his little brother, and whenever 
he visited the graveyard he used religiously and reverently 
to cross himself and to bow down and kiss the little grave. 
And now he dreamt that he was walking with his father 
past the tavern on the way to the graveyard; he was 
holding his father’s hand and looking with dread at the 
tavern. A peculiar circumstance attracted his attention: 
there seemed to be some kind of festivity going on, there 
were crowds of gaily dressed townspeople, peasant women, 
their husbands, and riff-raff of all sorts, all singing and all 
more or less drunk. Near the entrance of the tavern stood 
a cart, but a strange cart. It was one of those big carts 
usually drawn by heavy cart-horses and laden with casks 
of wine or other heavy goods. He always liked looking at 
those great cart-horses, with their long manes, thick legs, 
and slow even pace, drawing along a perfect mountain 
with no appearance of effort, as though it were easier 
going with a load than without it. But now, strange to say, 
in the shafts of such a cart he saw a thin little sorrel beast, 
one of those peasants’ nags which he had often seen strain- 
ing their utmost under a heavy load of wood or hay, 
especially when the wheels were stuck in the mud or in 
a rut. And the peasants would beat them so cruelly, some- 
times even about the nose and eyes and he felt so sorry, so 
sorry for them that he almost cried, and his mother always 
used to take him away from the window. All of a sudden 
there was a great uproar of shouting, singing and the 
balalaika, and from the tavern a number of big and very 
drunken peasants came out, wearing red and blue shirts 
and coats thrown over their shoulders. 

“Get in, get in!” shouted one of them, a young thick- 
necked peasant with a fleshy face red as a carrot. “I'll 

take you all, get in!” ’ 
But at once there was an outbreak of laughter and 
exclamations in the crowd. 


“Take us all with a beast like that!” 

“Why, Mikolka, are you crazy to put a nag like that in 
such a cart?” 

“And this mare is twenty if she is a day, mates!” 

“Get in, I'll take you all,” Mikolka shouted again, leap- 
ing first into the cart, seizing the reins and standing straight 
up in front. ‘The bay has gone with Matvey,”’ he shouted 
from the cart—‘‘and this brute, mates, is just breaking my 
heart, I feel as if I could kill her. She’s just eating her 
head off. Get in, I tell you! Ill make her gallop! She'll 
gallop!” and he picked up the whip, preparing himself 
with relish to flog the little mare. 

“Get in! Come along!” The crowd laughed. “D’you 
hear, she'll gallop!” 

“Gallop indeed! She has not had a gallop in her for the 
last ten years!” 

“She'll jog along!” 

“Don’t you mind her, mates, bring a whip each of you, 
get ready!” 

“All right! Give it to her!” 

They all clambered into Mikolka’s cart, laughing and 
' making jokes. Six men got in and there was still room 
for more. They hauled in a fat, rosy-cheeked woman. 
She was dressed in red cotton, in a pointed, beaded head- 
dress and thick leather shoes; she was cracking nuts and 
laughing. The crowd round them was laughing too and 
indeed, how could they help laughing? That wretched 
nag was to drag all the cartload of them at a gallop! Two 
young fellows in the cart were just getting whips ready 
to help Mikolka. With the cry of “now,” the mare tugged 
with all her might, but far from galloping, could scarcely 
move forward; she struggled with her legs, gasping and 
shrinking from the blows of the three whips which were 
showered upon her like hail. The laughter in the cart and 
‘in the crowd was redoubled, but Mikolka flew into a rage 
and furiously thrashed the mare, as though he supposed 
she really could gallop. 

“Let me get in, too, mates,” shouted a young man in the 
crowd whose appetite was aroused. 

“Get in, all get in,” cried Mikolka, “she will draw you 


all—I’ll beat her to death!” And he thrashed and thrashed 
at the mare, beside himself with fury. 

“Father, father,” he cried, “father, what are they doing? 
Father, they are beating the poor horse!” 

“Come along, come along!” said his father. “They are 
drunken and foolish, they are in fun; come away, don’t 
look!’ and he tried to draw him away, but he tore himself 
away from his hand, and, beside himself with horror, ran to 
the horse. The poor beast was in a bad way. She was gasp- 
ing, standing still, then tugging again and almost falling. 

“Beat her to death,” cried Mikolka, “it’s come to that. 
Tl do for her!” 

“What are you about, are you a Christian, you devil?” 
shouted an old man in the crowd. 

“Did any one ever see the like? A wretched nag like that 
pulling such a cartload,” said another. 

“You'll kill her,” shouted the third. i 
“Don’t meddle! It’s my property, I’ll do what I choose. 
Get in, more of you! Get in, all of you! I will have her 


All at once laughter broke into a roar and covered every- 
thing: the mare, roused by the shower of blows, began feebly 
kicking. Even the old man could not help smiling. To 
think of a wretched little beast like that trying to kick! 

Two lads in the crowd snatched up whips and ran to the 
mare to beat her about the ribs. One ran each side. 

“Hit her in the face, in the eyes, in the eyes,” cried 
Mikolka. . 

“Give us a song, mates,” shouted some one in the cart and 
every one in the cart joined in a riotous song, jingling a 
tambourine and whistling. The woman went on cracking 
nuts and laughing. 

. - - He ran beside the mare, ran in front of her, saw her 
being whipped across the eyes, right in the eyes! He was 
crying, he felt choking, his tears were streaming. One of 
the men gave him a cut with the whip across the face, he 
did not feel it. Wringing his hands and screaming, he 
rushed up to the grey-headed old man with the grey beard, 
who was shaking his head in disapproval. One woman seized 
him by the hand and would have taken him away, but he 


tore himself from her and ran back to the mare. She was 
almost at the last gasp, but began kicking once more. 

“T’ll teach you to kick,’ Mikolka shouted ferociously. He 
threw down the whip, bent forward and picked up from the 
bottom of the cart a long, thick shaft, he took hold of one 
end with both hands and with an effort brandished it over 
the mare. 

“He'll crush her,’ was shouted round him. “He'll kill 
her !” ya 

“It’s my property,” shouted Mikolka and brought the shaf 
down with a swinging blow. There was a sound of a heavy 

“Thrash her, thrash her! Why have you stopped?” 
shouted voices in the crowd. 

And Mikolka swung the shaft a second time and it fell a 
second time on the spine of the luckless mare. She sank 
back on her haunches, but lurched forward and tugged for- 
ward with all her force, tugged first on one side and then 
on the other, trying to move the cart. But the six whips 
were attacking her in all directions, and the shaft was raised 
again and fell upon her a third time, then a tourth, with 
heavy measured blows. Mikolka was in a fury that he could 
not kill her at one blow. 

“She’s a tough one,” was shouted in the crowd. 

“She'll fall in a minute, mates, there will soon be an end 
of her,” said an admiring spectator in the crowd. 

“Fetch an axe to her! Finish her off,” shouted a third. 
“Tl show you! Stand off,” Mikolka screamed frantically; 
he threw down the shaft, stooped down in the cart and picked 
up an iron crowbar. “Look out,” he shouted, and with all 
his might he dealt a stunning blow at the poor mare. The 
blow fell; the mare staggered, sank back, tried to pull, but 
the bar fell again with a swinging blow on her back and 

she fell on the ground like a log. 

“Finish her off,” shouted Mikolka and he leapt, beside him- 
self, out of the car. Several young men, also flushed with 
drink, seized anything they could come across—whips, sticks, 
poles, and ran to the dying mare. Mikolka stood on one side 
and began dealing random blows with the crowbar. The 
mare stretched out her head, drew a long breath and died. 


“Vou butchered her,’ some one shouted in the crowd. 

“Why wouldn’t she gallop then?” 

“My property!” shouted Mikolka, with bloodshot eyes, 
brandishing the bar in his hands. He stood as though re- 
gretting that he had nothing more to beat. 

“No mistake about it, you are not a Christian,’ many 
voices were shouting in the crowd. 

But the poor boy, beside himself, made his way screaming, 
through the crowd to the sorrel nag, put his arms round 
her bleeding dead head and kissed it, kissed the eyes and 
kissed the lips. . . . Then he jumped up and flew in a frenzy 
with his little fists out at Mikolka. At that instant his father 
who had been running after him, snatched him up and car- 
ried him out of the crowd. 

“Come along, come! Let us go home,” he said to him. 

“Father! Why did they... kill... the poor horse!” 
he sobbed, but his voice broke and the words came in shrieks 
from his panting chest. 

“They are drunk. ... They are brutal... it’s not our 
business!” said his father. He put his arms round his 
father, but he felt choked, choked. He tried to draw a 
breath, to cry out—and woke up. 

He waked up, gasping for breath, his hair soaked with 
perspiration, and stood up in terror. 

“Thank God, that was only a dream,” he said, sitting down 
under a tree and drawing deep breaths. “But what is it? 
Is it some fever coming on? Such a hideous dream!” 

He felt utterly broken; darkness and confusion were in 
his soul. He rested his elbows on his knees and leaned his 
head on his hands. 

- “Good God!” he cried, “can it be, can it be, that I shall 
really take an axe, that I shall strike her on the head, split 
her skull open ... that I shall tread in the sticky warm 
blood, break the lock, steal and tremble; hide, all spattered 
in the blood . . . with the axe. . . . Good God, can it be?” 

He was shaking like a leaf as he said this. 

“But why am I going on like this?” he continued, sitting 
up again, as it were in profound amazement. “I knew that 
I could never bring myself to it, so what have I been tor- 
turing myself for till now? Yesterday, yesterday, when I 


went to make that . . . experiment, yesterday I realised com- 
pletely that I could never bear to do it... Why am I going 
over it again, then? Why am I still hesitating? As I came 
down the stairs yesterday, I said myself that it was base, 
loathsome, vile, vile... the very thought of it made me 
feel sick and filled me with horror.” 

“No, I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t do it! Granted, granted 
that there is no flaw in all that reasoning, that all that I have 
concluded this last month is clear as day, true as arith 
metic. ... My God! Anyway I couldn’t bring myself to 
it! I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t do it! Why, why then am 
BL ones 

He rose to his feet, looked round in wonder as though sur- 
prised at finding himself in this place, and went towards the 
bridge. He was pale, his eyes glowed, he was exhausted in 
every limb, but he seemed suddenly to breathe more easily. 
He felt he had cast off that fearful burden that had so long 
been weighing upon him, and all at once there was a sense 
of relief and peace in his soul. “Lord,” he prayed, “show 
me my path—I renounce that accursed . . . dream of mine.” 

Crossing the bridge, he gazed quietly and calmly at the 
Neva, at the glowing red sun setting in the glowing sky. In 
spite of his weakness he -was not conscious of fatigue. It 
was as though an abscess that had been forming for a month 
past in his heart had suddenly broken. Freedom, freedom! 
He was free from that spell, that sorcery, that obsession! 

Later on, when he recalled that time and all that hap- 
pened to him during those days, minute by minute, point by 
point, he was superstitiously impressed by one circumstance, 
which though in itself not very exceptional, always seemed 
to him afterwards the predestined turning-point of his fate. 
He could never understand and explain to himself why, when 
he was tired and worn out, when it would have been more 
convenient for him to go home by the shortest and most 
direct way, he had returned by the Hay Market where he 
had no need to go. It was obviously and quite unnecessarily 
out of his way, though not much so. It is true that it hap- 
pened to him dozens of times to return home without notic- 
ing what streets he passed through. But why, he was always 
asking himself, why had such an important, such a decisive 


and at the same time such an absolutely chance meeting 
happened in the Hay Market (where he had moreover no 
reason to go) at the very hour, the very minute of his life 
when he was just in the very mood and in the very circum- 
stances in which that meeting was able to exert the gravest 
and most decisive influence on his whole destiny? As 
though it had been lying in wait for him on purpose! 

It was about nine o’clock when he crossed the Hay Mar- 
ket. At the tables and the barrows, at the booths and the 
shops, all the market people were closing their establish- 
ments or clearing away and packing up their wares and, like 
their customers, were going home. Rag pickers and coster- 
mongers of all kinds were crowding round the taverns in 
the dirty and stinking courtyards of the Hay Market. Ras- 
kolnikov particularly liked this place and the neighbouring 
alleys, when he wandered aimlessly in the streets. Here his 
rags did not attract contemptuous attention, and one could 
walk about in any attire without scandalising people. At 
the corner of an alley a huckster and his wife had two 
tables set out with tapes, thread, cotton handkerchiefs, &c. 
They, too, had got up to go home, but were lingering in 
conversation with a friend, who had just come up to them. 
This friend was Lizaveta Ivanovna, or, as every one called 
her, Lizaveta, the younger sister of the old pawnbroker, 
Alyona Ivanovna, whom Raskolnikov had visited the previous 
day to pawn his watch and make his experiment.... He 
already knew all about Lizaveta and she knew him a little 
too. She was a single woman of about thirty-five, tall, 
clumsy, timid, submissive and almost idiotic. She was a com- 
plete slave and went in fear and trembling of her sister, who 
made her work day and night, and even beat her. She was 
standing with a bundle before the huckster and his wife, 
listening earnestly and doubtfully. They were talking of 
something with special warmth. The moment Raskolnikov 
caught sight of her, he was overcome by a strange sensa- 
tion as it were of intense astonishment, though there was 
nothing astonishing about this meeting. 

“You could make up your mind for yourself, Lizaveta 
Ivanovna,” the huckster was saying aloud. “Come round 
to-morrow about seven. They will be here too.” 


“To-morrow?” said Lizaveta slowly and thoughtfully, as 
though unable to make up her mind. 

“Upon my word, what a fright you are in of Alyona Ivan- 
ovna,”’ gabbied the huckster’s wife, a lively little woman. “I 
look at you, you are like some little babe. And she is not 
your own sister either—nothing but a stepsister and what a 
hand she keeps over you!” 

“But this time don’t say a word to Alyona Ivanovna,” her 
husband interrupted; “that’s my advice, but come round to 
us without asking. It will be worth your while. Later on 
your sister herself may have a notion.” 

“Am I to come?” 

“About seven o’clock to-morrow. And they will be here. 
You will be able to decide for yourself.” 

“And we'll have a cup of tea,” added his wife. 

“All right, I’ll come,” said Lizaveta, still pondering, and 
she began slowly moving away. 

Raskolnikov had just passed and heard no more. He 
passed softly, unnoticed, trying not to miss a word. His 
first amazement was followed by a thrill of horror, like a 
shiver running down his spine. He had learnt, he had sud- 
denly quite unexpectedly learnt, that the next day at seven 
o'clock Lizaveta, the old woman’s sister and only companion, 
would be away from home and that therefore at seven o’clock 
precisely the old woman would be left alone. 

He was only a few steps from his lodging. He went in 
like a man condemned to death. He thought of nothing and 
was incapable of thinking; but he felt suddenly in his whole 
being that he had no more freedom of thought, no will, and 
that everything was suddenly and irrevocably decided. 

Certainly, if he had to wait whole years for a suitable op- 
portunity, he could not reckon on a more certain step towards 
the success of the plan than that which had just presented 
itself. In any case, it would have been difficult to find out 
beforehand and with certainty, with greater exactness and 
less risk, and without dangerous inquiries and investigations, 
that next day at a certain time an old woman, on whose life 
an attempt was contemplated, would be at home and entirely 


F ATER on, Raskolnikov happened to find out why the 
huckster and his wife had invited Lizaveta. It was a 
very ordinary matter and there was nothing excep- 

tional about it. A family who had come to the town and 

been reduced to poverty were selling their household goods 
and clothes, all women’s things. As the things would have 
fetched little in the market, they were looking for a dealer. 

This was Lizaveta’s business. She undertook such jobs and 

was frequently employed, as she was very honest and always 

fixed a fair price and stuck toit. She spoke asa rule little and, 
as we have said already, she was very submissive and timid. 

But Raskolnikov had become superstitious of late. The 
traces of superstition remained in him long after, and were 
almost ineradicable. And in all this he was always after- 
wards disposed to see something strange and mysterious, as 
it were the presence of some peculiar influences and coin- 
cidences. In the previous winter a student he knew called 

Pokorev, who had left for Harkov, had chanced in conversa- 

tion to give him the address of Alyona Ivanovna, the old 

pawnbroker, in case he might want to pawn anything. For 

a long while he did not go to her, for he had lessons and 

managed to get along somehow. Six weeks ago he had re- 

membered the address; he had two articles that could be 
pawned: his father’s old silver watch and a little gold ring 
with three red stones, a present from his sister at parting. 

He decided to take the ring. When he found the old woman 

he had felt an insurmountable repulsion for her at the first 

glance, though he knew nothing special about her. He got 
two roubles from her and went into a miserable little tavern 
on his way home. He asked for tea, sat down and sank into 
deep thought. A strange idea was pecking at his brain like 

a chicken in the egg, and very, very much absorbed him. 
Almost beside him at the next table there was sitting a 

student, whom he did not pW and had never seen, and 


with him a young officer. They had played a game of bil- 
liards and began drinking tea. All at once he heard the 
student mention to the officer the pawnbroker Alyona Ivan- 
ovna and give him her address. This of itself seemed strange 
to Raskolnikov; he had just come from her and here at once 
heard her name. Of course it was a chance, but he could 
not shake off a very extraordinary impression, and here some 
one seemed to be speaking expressly for him; the student be- 
gan telling his friend various details about Alyona Ivanovnat 

“She is first rate,” he said. “You can always get money 
from her. She is as rich as a Jew, she can give you five 
thousand roubles at a time and she is not above taking a 
pledge for a rouble. Lots of our fellows have had dealings 
with her. But she is an awful old harpy. .. .” 

And he began describing how spiteful and uncertain she 
was, how if you were only a day late with your interest the 
pledge was lost; how she gave a quarter of the value of an 
article and took five and even seven per cent. a month on 
it and so on. The student chattered on, saying that she had 
a sister Lizaveta, whom the wretched little creature was con- 
‘tinually beating, and kept in complete bondage like a small 
child, though Lizaveta was at least six feet high. 

“There’s a phenomenon for you,” cried the student and 
he laughed. 

They began talking about Lizaveta. The student spoke 
about her with a peculiar relish and was continually laughing 
and the officer listened with great interest and asked him to 
send Lizaveta to do some mending for him. Raskolnikov did 
not miss a word and learned everything about her. Lizaveta 
was younger than the old woman and was her hali-sister, 
being the child of a different mother. She was thirty-five. 
She worked day and night for her sister, and besides doing 
the cooking and the washing, she did sewing and worked as a 
charwoman and gave her sister all she earned. She did not 
dare to accept an order or job of any kind without her sister’s 
permission. The old woman had already made her will, and 
Lizaveta knew of it, and by this will she would not get a 
farthing; nothing but the movables, chairs and so on; all 
the money was left to a monastery in the province of N. ; 
that prayers might be said for her in perpetuity. Lizaveta 


was of lower rank than her sister, unmarried and awfully 
uncouth in appearance, remarkably tall with long feet that 
looked as if they were bent outwards. She always wore bat- 
tered goatskin shoes, and was clean in her person. What 
the student expressed most surprise and amusement about 
was the fact that Lizaveta was continually with child. 

“But you say she is hideous?” observed the officer. 

“Yes, she is so dark-skinned and looks like a soldier dressed 
up, but you know she is not at all hideous. She has such a 
good-natured face and eyes. Strikingly so. And the proof of it 
is that lotsof people are attracted by her. She is such a soft, 
gentle creature, ready to put up with anything, always willing, 
willing to do anything. And her smile is really very sweet.” 

“You seem to find her attractive yourself,’ laughed the 

“From her queerness. No, I'll tell you what. I could kill 
that damned old woman and make off with her money, I as- 
sure you, without the faintest conscience-prick,”’ the student 
added with warmth. The officer laughed again while Ras- 
kolnikov shuddered. How strange it was! 

“Listen, I want to ask you a serious question,” the stu- 
dent said hotly. “I was joking of course, but look here; on 
one side we have a stupid, senseless, worthless, spiteful, ail- 
ing, horrid old woman, not simply useless but doing actual 
mischief, who has not an idea what she is living for herself, 
and who will die in a day or two in any case. You under- 
stand? You understand ?” 

“Yes, yes, I understand,” answered the officer, watching 
his excited companion attentively. 

“Well, listen then. On the other side, fresh young lives 
thrown away for want of help and by thousands, on every 
side! A hundred thousand good deeds could be done and 
helped, on that old woman’s money which will be buried in a 
monastery! Hundreds, thousands perhaps, might be set on 
the right path; dozens of families saved from destitution, 
from ruin, from vice, from the Lock hospitals—and all with 
her money. Kill her, take her money and with the help of 
it devote oneself to the service of humanity and the good 
of all. What do you think, would not one tiny crime be 
wiped out by thousands of good deeds? For one life thou- 


sands would be saved from corruption and decay. One 
death, and a hundred lives in exchange—it’s simple arith- 
metic? Besides, what value has the life of that sickly, 
stupid, ill-natured old woman in the balance of existence? 
No more than the life of a louse, of a black beetle, less in 
fact because the old woman is doing harm. She is wearing 
_ out the lives of others; the other day she bit Lizaveta’s 
finger out of spite; it almost had to be amputated.” 

“Of course she does not deserve to live,” remarked the 
officer, “but there it is, it’s nature.” 

“Oh well, brother, but we have to correct and direct nature, 
and, but for that, we should drown in an ocean of prejudice. 
But for that, there would never have been a single great man. 
They talk of duty, conscience—I don’t want to say anything 
against duty and conscience ;—but the point is what do we 
mean by them. Stay, I have another question to ask you. 
Listen !” 

“No, you stay, I'll ask you a question. Listen!” 


“You are talking and speechifying away, but tell me, would 
-you kill the old woman yourself?” 

“Of course not! I was only arguing the justice of it... . 
It’s nothing to do with me... ” 

“But I think, if you would not do it yourself, there’s no 
justice about it... . Let us have another game.” 

Raskolnikov was violently agitated. Of course, it was all 
ordinary youthful talk aud thought, such as he had often 
heard before in different forms and on different themes. But 
why had he happened to hear such a discussion and such 
ideas at the very moment when his own brain was just 
conceiving ... the very same ideas? And why, just at the 
moment when he had brought away the embryo of his idea 
from the old woman, had he dropped at once upon a con- 
versation about her? This coincidence always seemed strange © 
to him. This trivial talk in a tavern had an immense influ- 
ence on him in his later action; as though there had really 
been in it something preordained, some guiding hint. ... 

On’returning from the Hay Market he flung himself on 
the sofa and sat for a whole hour without stirring. Mean- 


while it got dark; he had no candle and, indeed, it did not 
occur to him to light up. He could never recollect whether 
he had been thinking about anything at that time. At last 
he was conscious of his former fever and shivering, and 
he realised with relief that he could lie down on the sofa. 
Soon heavy, leaden sleep came over him, as it were crushing 

He slept an extraordinary long time and without dreaming. 
Nastasya, coming into his room at ten o’clock the next morn- 
ing, had difficulty in rousing him. She brought him in tea 
and bread. The tea was again the second brew and again 
in her own teapot. 

“My goodness, how he sleeps 
“And he is always asleep.” 

He got up with an effort. His head ached, he stood up, 
took a turn in his garret and sank back on the sofa again. 

“Going to sleep again,” cried Nastasya. “Are you ill, eh?” 
He made no reply. 

“Do you want some tea?” 

“Afterwards,” he said with an effort, closing his eyes again 
and turning to the wall. 

Nastasya stood over him. 

“Perhaps he really is ill,” she said, turned and went out. 
She came in again at two o’clock with soup. He was lying as 
before. The tea stood untouched. Nastasya felt positively 
offended and began wrathfully rousing him. 

“Why are you lying like a log?” she shouted, looking at 
him with repulsion. 

He got up, and sat down again, but said nothing and 
stared at the floor. 

“Are you ill or not?” asked Nastasya and again received 
no answer. “You'd better go out and get a breath of air,” 
she said after a pause. “Will you eat it or not?” 

“Afterwards,” he said weakly. “You can go.” 

And he motioned her out. 

She remained a little longer, looked at him with com- 
passion and went out. 

A few minutes afterwards, he raised his eyes and looked 
for a long while at the tea and the soup. Then he took the 
bread, took up a spoon and began to eat. 


she cried indignantly. 


He ate a little, three or four spoonfuls, without appetite, 
as it were mechanically. His head ached less. After his 
meal he stretched himself on the sofa again, but now he 
could not sleep; he lay without stirring, with his face in the 
pillow. He was haunted by daydreams and such strange 
daydreams; in one, that kept recurring, he fancied that he 
was in Africa, in Egypt, in some sort of oasis. The caravan 
was resting, the camels were peacefully lying down; the 
palms stood all round in a complete circle; all the party 
were at dinner. But he was drinking water from a spring 
which flowed gurgling close by. And it was so cool, it was 
wonderful, wonderful, blue, cold water running among the 
parti-coloured stones and over the clean sand which glistened 
here and there like gold... . Suddenly he heard a clock 
strike. He started, roused himself, raised his head, looked 
out of the window, and seeing how late it was, suddenly 
jumped up wide awake as though some one had pulled him 
off the sofa. He crept on tiptoe to the door, stealthily opened 
it and began listening on the staircase. His heart beat 
terribly. But all was quiet on the stairs as if every one was 
asleep... . It seemed to him strange and monstrous that he 
could have slept in such forgetfulness from the previous 
day and had done nothing, had prepared nothing yet. ... 
And meanwhile perhaps it had struck six. And his drowsi- 
ness and stupefaction were followed by an extraordinary, 
feverish, as it were, distracted, haste. But the preparations 
to be made were few. He concentrated all his energies on 
thinking of everything and forgetting nothing: and his heart 
kept beating and thumping so that he could hardly breathe. 
First he had to make a noose and sew it into his overcoat— 
a work of a moment. He rummaged under his pillow and 
picked out amongst the linen stuffed away under it, a worn 
out, old unwashed shirt. From its rags he tore a long strip, 
a couple of inches wide and about sixteen inches long. He 
folded this strip in two, took off his wide, strong summer 
overcoat of some stout cotton material (his only outer gar- 
ment) and began sewing the two ends of the rag on the 
inside, under the left armhole. His hands shook as he 
sewed, but he did it successfully so that nothing showed out- 
side when he put the coat on again. The needle and thread 


he had got ready long before and they lay on his table in a 
piece of paper. As for the noose, it was a very ingenious 
device of his own; the noose was intended for the axe. It 
was impossible for him to carry the axe through the street 
in his hands. And if hidden under his coat he would still 
have had to support it with his hand, which would have been 
noticeable. Now he had only to put the head of the axe in 
the noose, and it would hang quietly under his arm on the 
inside. Putting his hand in his coat pocket, he could hold 
the end of the handle.all the way, so that it did not swing; 
and as the coat was very full, a regular sack in fact, it could 
not be seen from outside that he was holding something with 
the hand that was in the pocket. This noose, too, he had 
designed a fortnight before. 

When he had finished with this, he thrust his hand into a 
little opening between his sofa and the floor, fumbled in the 
left corner and drew out the pledge, which he had got ready 
long before and hidden there. This pledge was, however, 
only a smoothly planed piece of wood the size and thickness 
of a silver cigarette case. He picked up this piece of wood 
in one of his wanderings in a courtyard where there was 
some sort of a workshop. Afterwards he had added to the 
wood a thin smooth piece of iron, which he had also picked 
up at the same time in the street. Putting the iron which 
was a little the smaller on the piece of wood, he fastened 
them very firmly, crossing and recrossing the thread round 
them; then wrapped them carefully and daintily in clean, 
white paper and tied up the parcel so that it would be very 
difficult to untie it. This was in order to divert the attention 
of the old woman for a time, while she was trying to undo 
the knot, and so to gain a moment. The iron strip was 
added to give weight, so that the woman might not guess the 
first minute that the “thing” was made of wood. All this 
had been stored by him beforehand under the sofa. He had 
only just got the pledge out when he heard some one sud- 
denly shout in the yard. 

“Tt struck six long ago.” 

“Long ago! My God!’ 

He rushed to the door, listened, caught up his hat and 
began to descend his thirteen steps cautiously, noiselessly, 


like a cat. He had still the most important thing to do—to 
steal the axe from the kitchen. That the deed must be done 
with an axe he had decided long ago. He had also a pocket 
pruning-knife, but he could not rely on the knife and still 
less on his own strength, and so resolved finally on the axe. 
We may note in passing, one peculiarity in regard to all the 
final resolutions taken by him in the matter; they had one 
strange characteristic; the more final they were, the more 
hideous and the more absurd they at once became in his eyes. 
In spite of all his agonising inward struggle, he never fora 
single instant all that time could believe in the carrying out 
of his plans. 

And, indeed, if it had ever happened that everything to the 
least point could have been considered and finally settled, and 
no uncertainty of any kind had remained, he would, it seems, 
have renounced it all as something absurd, monstrous and 
impossible. But a whole mass of unsettled points and uncer- 
tainties remained. As for getting the axe, that trifling busi- 
ness cost him no anxiety, for nothing could be easier. Nas- 
tasya was continually out of the house, especially in the 
evenings; she would run in to the neighbours or to a shop, 
_and always left the door ajar. It was the one thing the land- 
lady was always scolding her about. And so when the time 
came, he would only have to go quietly into the kitchen 
and to take the axe, and an hour later (when everything 
was over) go in and put it back again. But these were 
doubtful points. Supposing he returned an hour later to put 
it back, and Nastasya had come back and was on the spot. 
He would of course have to go by and wait till she went out 
again. But supposing she were in the meantime to miss the 
axe, look for it, make an outcry—that would mean suspicion 
or at least grounds for suspicion. 

But those were all trifles which he had not even begun to 
consider, and indeed he had no time. He was thinking of the 
chief point, and put off trifling details, until he could believe 
in it all. But that seemed utterly unattainable. So it seemed 
to himself at least. He could not imagine, for instance, that 
he would sometime leave off thinking, get up and simply go 
there... . Even his late experiment (7.e. his visit with the 
object of a final survey of the place) was simply an attempt 


at an experiment, far from being the real thing, as though 
one should say “come, let us go and try it—why dream about 
it!”’—and at once he had broken down and had run away 
cursing, in a frenzy with himself. Meanwhile it would 
seem, as regards the moral question, that his analysis was 
complete; his casuistry had become keen as a razor, and he 
could not find rational objections in himself. But in the last 
resort. he simply ceased to believe in himself, and doggedly, 
slavishly sought arguments in all directions, fumbling for 
them, as though some one were forcing and drawing him 
to it. 

At first—long before indeed—he had been much occupied 
with one question; why almost all crimes are so badly con- 
cealed and so easily detected, and why almost all criminals 
leave such obvious traces? He had come gradually to many 
different and curious conclusions, and in his opinion the 
chief reason lay not so much in the material impossibility 
of concealing the crime, as in the criminal himself. Almost 
every criminal is subject to a failure of will and reasoning 
power by a childish and phenomenal heedlessness, at the very 
instant when prudence and caution are most essential. It 
was his conviction that this eclipse of reason and failure of 
will power attacked a man like a disease, developed grad- 
ually and reached its highest point just before the perpetra- 
tion of the crime, continued with equal violence at the 
moment of the crime and for longer or shorter time after, 
according to the individual case, and then passed off like 
any other disease. The question whether the disease gives 
rise to the crime, or whether the crime from its own peculiar 
nature is always accompanied by something of the nature of 
disease he did not yet feel able to decide. 

When he reached these conclusions, he decided that in his 
own case there could not be such a morbid reaction, that his 
reason and will would remain unimpaired at the time of 
carrying out his design, for the single reason that his design 
was “not a crime... .” We will omit all the process by 
means of which he arrived at this last conclusion; we have 
run too far ahead-already.. . We may add only that the 
practical, purely material difficulties of the affair occupied 
a secondary position in his mind. “One has but to keep all 


one’s will power and reason to deal with them, and they will 
all be overcome at the time when once one has familiarised 
oneself with the minutest details of the business. . . .” 
But this preparation had never been begun. His final 
decisions were what he came to trust least, and when the 
hour struck, it all came to pass quite differently, as it were 
accidentally and unexpectedly. 

One trifling circumstance upset his calculations, before he 
had even left the staircase. When he reached the landlady’s 
kitchen, the door, of which was open as usual, he glanced 
cautiously in to see whether, in Nastasya’s absence, the land- 
lady herself was there, or if not, whether the door to her 
own room was closed, so that she might not peep out when 
he went in for the axe. But what was his amazement when 
he suddenly saw that Nastasya was not only at home in the 
kitchen, but was occupied there, taking linen out of a basket 
and hanging it on a line. Seeing him, she left off hanging 
the clothes, turned to him and stared at him all the time he 
was passing. He turned away his eyes, and walked past as 
though he noticed nothing. But it was the end of every- 
thing; he had not the axe! He was overwhelmed. 

“What made me think,” he reflected, as he went under the 
gateway. “What made me think that she would be sure not 
to be at home at that moment! Why, why, why did I 
assume this so certainly?” 

He was crushed and even humiliated. He could have 
laughed at himself in his anger. ...A dull animal rage 
boiled within him. 

He stood hesitating in the gateway. To go into the street, 
to go a walk for appearance’ sake was revolting; to go back 
to his room, even more revolting. “And what a chance I have 
lost for ever!” he muttered, standing aimlessly in the gate- 
way, just opposite the porter’s little dark room, which was 
also open. Suddenly he started. From the porter’s room, two 
paces away from him, something shining under the bench to 
the right caught his eye. . .. He looked about him—nobody. 
He approached the room on tiptoe, went down two steps into 
it and in a faint voice called the porter. “Yes, not at home! 
Somewhere near though, in the yard, for the door is wide 
open.” He dashed to the axe (it was an axe) and pulled it 


out from under the bench, where it lay between two chunks 
of wood; at once before going out, he made it fast in the 
noose, he thrust both hands into his pockets and went out of 
the room; no one had noticed him! ‘‘When reason fails, the 
devil helps!” he thought with a strange grin. This chance 
raised his spirits extraordinarily. 

He walked along quietly and sedately, without hurry, to 
avoid awakening suspicion. He scarcely looked at the 
passers-by, tried to escape looking at their faces at all, and 
to be as little noticeable as possible. Suddenly he thought of 
his hat. “Good heavens! I had the money the day before 
yesterday and did not get a cap to wear instead!” A curse 
rose from the bottom of his soul. 

Glancing out of the corner of his eye into a shop, he saw 
by a clock on the wall that it was ten minutes past seven. 
He had to make haste and at the’ same time to go some way 
round, so as to approach the house from the other side. ... 

When he had happened to imagine all this beforehand, he 
had sometimes thought that he would be very much afraid. 
But he was not very much afraid now, was not afraid at all, 
indeed. His mind was even occupied by irrelevant matters, 
but by nothing for long. As he passed the Yusupov garden, 
he was deeply absorbed in considering the building of great 
fountains, and of their refreshing effect on the atmosphere 
in all the squares. By degrees he passed to the conviction 
that if the summer garden were extended to the field of Mars, 
and perhaps joined to the garden of the Mihailovsky Palace, 
it would be a splendid thing and a great benefit to the town. 
Then he was interested by the question why in all great towns 
men are not simply driven by necessity, but in some peculiar 
way inclined to live in those parts of the town where there 
are no gardens nor fountains; where there is most dirt and 
smell and all sorts of nastiness. Then his own walks through 
the Hay Market came back to his mind, and for a moment he 
waked up to reality. “What nonsense!” he thought, “better 
think of nothing at all!” 

“So probably men led to execution clutch mentally at every 
object that meets them on the way,” flashed through his mind, 
but simply flashed, like lightning; he made haste to dismiss 
this thought... . And by now he was near; here was the 



house, here was the gate. Suddenly a clock somewhere struck 
once. “What! can it be half-past seven? Impossible, it must 
be fast!” 

Luckily for him, everything went well again at the gates. 
At that very moment, as though expressly for his benefit, a 
huge waggon of hay had just driven in at the gate, completely 
screening him as he passed under the gateway, and the wag- 
gon had scarcely had time to drive through into the yard, 
before he had slipped in a flash to the right. On the other 
side of the waggon he could hear shouting and quarrellihg; 
but no one noticed him and no one met him. Many windows 
looking into that huge quadrangular yard were open at that 
moment, but he did not raise his head—he had not the 
strength to. The staircase leading to the old woman’s room 
was close by, just on the right of the gateway. He was 
already on the stairs....° 

Drawing a breath, pressing his hand against his throbbing 
heart, and once more feeling for the axe and setting it 
straight, he began softly and cautiously ascending the stairs, 
listening every minute. But the stairs, too, were quite 
deserted; all the doors were shut; he met no one. One 
flat indeed on the first floor was wide open and painters were 
at work in it, but they did not glance at him. He stood still, 
thought a minute and went on. “Of course it would be 
better if they had not been here, but... it’s two storeys 
above them. 

And here was the fourth storey, here was the door, here was 
the flat opposite, the empty one. The flat underneath the old 
woman’s was apparently empty also; the visiting card nailed 
on the door had been torn off—they had gone away!... He 
was out of breath. For one instant the thought floated 
through his mind “Shall I go back?” But he made no answer 
and began listening at the old woman’s door, a dead silence. 
Then he listened again on the staircase, listened long and 
intently . . . then looked about him for the last time, pulled 
himself together, drew himself up, and once more tried the 
axe in the noose. “Am I very pale?” he wondered. “Am I 
not evidently agitated? She is mistrustful. . . . Had I better 
wait a little longer ... till my heart leaves off thumping?” 

But his heart did not leave off. On the contrary, as though 


to spite him, it throbbed more and more violently. He could 
stand it no longer, he slowly put out his hand to the bell and 
rang. Half a minute later he rang again, more loudly. 

No answer. To go on ringing was useless and out of 
place. The old woman was, of course, at home, but she was 
suspicious and alone. He had some knowledge of her habits 
: ee and once more he put his ear to the door. Either his 
senses were peculiarly keen (which it is difficult to suppose), 
or the sound was really very distinct. Anyway, he suddenly 
heard something like the cautious touch of a hand on the 
lock and the rustle of a skirt at the very door. Some one 
was standing stealthily close to the lock and just as he was 
doing on the outside was secretly listening within, and seemed 
to have her ear to the door... . He moved a little on pur- 
pose and muttered something aloud that he might not have 
the appearance of hiding, then rang a third time, but quietly, 
soberly and without impatience. Recalling it afterwards, 
that moment stood out in his mind vividly, distinctly, for 
ever; he could not make out how he had had such cunning, 
for his mind was as it were clouded at moments and he was 
almost unconscious of his body.... An instant later he 
heard the latch unfastened. 


two sharp and suspicious eyes stared at him out of the 
darkness. Then Raskolnikov lost his head and nearly 
made a great mistake. 

Fearing the old woman would be frightened by their being 
alone, and not hoping that the sight of him would disarm her 
suspicions, he took hold of the door and drew it towards him 
to prevent the old woman from attempting to shut it again. 
Seeing this she did not pull the door back, but she did not let 
go the handle so that he almost dragged her out with it on to 
the stairs. Seeing that she was standing in the doorway not 
allowing him to pass, he advanced straight upon her. She 
stepped back in alarm, tried to say something, but seemed 
unable to speak and stared with open eyes at him. 

“Good evening, Alyona Ivanovna,” he began, trying to 
speak easily, but his voice would not obey him, it broke and 
shook. “I have come ...I have brought something... 
but we’d better come in... to the light... .” 

And leaving her, he passed straight into the room unin- 
vited. The old woman ran after him; her tongue was 

“Good heavens! What is it? Who is it? What do you 

“Why, Alyona Ivanovna, you know me... Raskolnikov 
>. here, I brought you the pledge I promised the other 
day. ... and he held out the pledge. 

The old woman glanced for a moment at the pledge, but at 
once stared in the eyes of her uninvited visitor. She looked 
intently, maliciously and mistrustfully. A minute passed; he 
even fancied something like a sneer in her eyes, as though she 
had already guessed everything. He felt that he was losing 
his head, that he was almost frightened, so frightened that if 
she were to look like that and not say a word for another 

half minute, he thought he would have run away from her. 

ke door was as before opened a tiny crack, and again 


“Why do you look at me as though you did not know me?” 
he said suddenly, also with malice. “Take it if you like, if 
not I’ll go elsewhere, I am in a hurry.” 

He had not even thought of saying this, but it was sud- 
denly said of itself. The old woman recovered herself, and 
her visitor’s resolute tone evidently restored her confidence. 

“But why, my good sir, all of a minute. . . . What is it?” 
she asked, looking at the pledge. 

“The silver cigarette case; I spoke of it last time, you 

She held out her hand. 

“But how pale you are, to be sure ..; and your hands 
are trembling too? Have you been bathing, or what?” 

_ “Fever,” he answered abruptly. “You can’t help getting 
pale . . . if you’ve nothing to eat,” he added, with difficulty 
articulating the words. 

His strength was failing him again. But his answer 
sounded like the truth; the old woman took the pledge. 

“What is it?” she asked once more, scanning Raskolnikov 
intently and weighing the pledge in her hand. 

“A thing ... cigarette case. ... Silver. . . . Look at it.” 

“Tt does not seem somehow like silver. .. . How he has 
wrapped it up!” 

Trying to untie the string and turning to the window, to 
the light (all her windows were shut, in spite of the stifling 
heat), she left him altogether for some seconds and stood 
with her back to him. He unbuttoned his coat and freed the 
axe from the noose, but did not yet take it out altogether, 
simply holding it in his right hand under the coat. His hands 
were fearfully weak, he felt them every moment growing 
more numb and more wooden. He was afraid he would let 
the axe slip and fall... . A sudden giddiness came over him. 

“But what has he tied it up like this for?” the old woman 
cried with vexation and moved towards him. 

He had not a minute more to lose. He pulled the axe 
quite out, swung it with both arms, scarcely conscious of 
himself, and almost without effort, almost mechanically, 
brought the blunt side down on her head. He seemed not 
to use his own strength in this. But as soon as he had once 
brought the axe down, his strength returned to him. 


The old woman was as always bareheaded. Her thin, light 
hair, streaked with grey, thickly smeared with grease, was 
plaited in a rat’s tail and fastened by a broken horn comb 
which stood out on the nape of her neck. As she was so 
short, the blow fell on the very top of her skull. She cried 
out, but very faintly, and suddenly sank all of a heap on the 
floor, raising her hands to her head. In one hand she still 
held “the pledge.” Then he dealt her another and another 
blow with the blunt side and on the same spot. The blood 
gushed forth as from an overturned glass, the body fell back. 
He stepped back, let it fall, and at once bent over her face; 
she was dead. Her eyes seemed to be starting out of their 
sockets, the brow and the whole face were drawn and con- 
torted convulsively. 

He laid the axe on the ground near the dead body and felt 
at once in her pocket (trying to avoid the streaming blood) 
—the same right hand pocket from which she had taken the 
key on his last visit. He was in full possession of his facul- 
ties, free from confusion or giddiness, but his hands were 
still trembling. He remembered afterwards that he had been 
particularly collected and careful, trying all the time not to 
get smeared with blood. ... He pulled out the keys at once, 
they were all, as before, in one bunch on a steel ring. He 
ran at once into the bedroom with them. It was a very small 
room with a whole shrine of holy images. Against the other 
wall stood a big bed, very clean and covered with a silk 
patchwork wadded quilt. Against a third wall was a chest of 
drawers. Strange to say, so soon as he began to fit the keys 
into the chest, so soon as he heard their jingling, a convulsive 
shudder passed over him. He suddenly felt tempted again to 
give it all up and goaway. But that was only for an instant; 
it was too late to go back. He positively smiled at himself, 
when suddenly another terrifying idea occurred to his mind. 
He suddenly fancied that the old woman might be still alive 
and might recover her senses. Leaving the keys in the chest, 
he ran back to the body, snatched up the axe and lifted it 
once more over the old woman, but did not bring it down. 
There was no doubt that she was dead. Bending down and 
examining her again more closely, he saw clearly that the 
skull was broken and even battered in on one side. He was 


about to feel it with his finger, but drew back his hand and 
indeed it was evident without that. Meanwhile there was a 
perfect pool of blood. All at once he noticed a string on her 
neck; he tugged at it, but the string was strong and did not 
snap and besides, it was soaked with blood. He tried to pull 
it out from the front of the dress, but something held it and 
prevented its coming. In his impatience he raised the axe 
again to cut the string from above on the body, but did not 
dare, and with difficulty, smearing his hand and the axe in 
the blood, after two minutes’ hurried effort, he cut the string 
and took it off without touching the body with the axe; he 
was not mistaken—it was a purse. On the string were two 
crosses, one of Cyprus wood and one of copper, and an image 
in silver filigree, and with them a small greasy chamois 
leather purse with a steel rim and ring. The purse was 
stuffed very full; Raskolnikov thrust it in his pocket without 
looking at it, flung the crosses on the old woman’s body and 
rushed back into the bedroom, this time taking the axe with 

He was in terrible haste, he snatched the keys, and began 
trying them again. But he was unsuccessful. They would 
not fit in the locks. It was not so much that his hands were 
shaking, but that he kept making mistakes; though he saw 
for instance that a key was not the right one and would not 
fit, still he tried to put it in. Suddenly he remembered and 
realised that the big key with the deep notches, which was 
hanging there with the small keys could not possibly belong 
to the chest of drawers, (on his last visit this had struck 
him) but to some strong box, and that everything perhaps 
was hidden in that box. He left the chest of drawers, and 
at once felt under the bedstead, knowing that old women 
usually keep boxes under their beds. And so it was; there 
was a good-sized box under the bed, at least a yard in length, 
with an arched lid covered with red leather and studded with 
steel nails. The notched key fitted at once and unlocked it. 
At the top, under a white sheet, was a coat of red brocade 
lined with hareskin; nnder it was a silk dress, then a shawl 
and it seemed as though there was nothing below but clothes. 
The first thing he did was to wipe his blood-stained hands on 
the red brocade. “It’s red, and on red blood will be less 


noticeable,” the thought passed through his mind; then he 
suddenly came to himself. “Good God, am I going out of 
my senses?” he thought with terror. 

But no sooner did he touch the clothes than a gold watch 
slipped from under the fur coat. He made haste to turn them 
all over. There turned out to be various articles made of 
gold among the clothes—probably all pledges, unredeemed or 
waiting to be redeemed—bracelets, chains, ear-rings, pins and 
such things. Some were in cases, others simply wrapped im 
newspaper, carefully and exactly folded, and tied round with 
tape. Without any delay, he began filling up the pockets of 
his trousers and overcoat without examining or undoing the 
parcels and cases; but he had not time to take many. ... 

He suddenly heard steps in the room where the old woman 
lay. He stopped short and was still as death. But all was 
quiet, so it must have been his fancy. All at once he heard 
distinctly a faint cry, as though some one had uttered a low 
broken moan. Then again dead silence for a minute or two. 
He sat squatting on his heels by the box and waited holding 
his breath. Suddenly he jumped up, seized the axe and ran 
out of the bedroom. 

In the middle of the room stood Lizaveta with a big bundle 
in her arms. She was gazing in stupefaction at her murdered 
sister, white as a sheet and seeming not to have the strength 
to cry out. Seeing him run out of the bedroom, she began 
faintly quivering all over, like a leaf, a shudder ran down her 
face; she lifted her hand, opened her mouth, but still did not 
scream. She began slowly backing away from him into the 
corner, staring intently, persistently at him, but still uttered 
no sound, as though she could not get breath to scream. He 
rushed at her with the axe; her mouth twitched piteously, as 
one sees babies’ mouths, when they begin to be frightened, 
stare intently at what frightens them and are on the point of 
screaming. And this hapless Lizaveta was so simple and had 
been so thoroughly crushed and scared that she did not even 
raise a hand to guard her face, though that was the most 
necessary and natural action at the moment, for the axe was 
raised over her face. She only put up her empty left hand, but 
not to her face, slowly holding it out before her as though 
motioning him away. The axe fell with the sharp edge just 


on the skull and split at one blow all the top of her head. She 
fell heavily at once. Raskolnikov completely lost his head, 
snatched up her bundle, dropped it again and ran into the 

Fear gained more and more mastery over him, especially 
after this second, quite unexpected murder. He longed to 
run away from the place as fast as possible. And if at that 
moment he had been capable of seeing and reasoning more 
correctly, if he had been able to realise all the difficulties of 
his position, the hopelessness, the hideousness and the absurd- 
ity of it, if he could have understood how many obstacles and, 
perhaps, crimes he had still to overcome or to commit, to get 
out of that place and to make his way home, it is very possible 
that he would have flung up everything, and would have gone 
to give himself up, and not from fear, but from simple hor- 
ror and loathing of what he had done. The feeling of loath- 
ing especially surged up within him and grew stronger every 
minute. He would not now have gone to the box or even 
into the room for anything in the world. 

But a sort of blankness, even dreaminess had begun by 
degrees to take possession of him; at moments he forgot 
himself, or rather forgot what was of importance and caught 
at trifles. Glancing, however, into the kitchen and seeing a 
bucket half full of water on a bench, he bethought him of 
washing his hands and the axe. His hands were sticky with 
blood. He dropped the axe with the blade in the water, 
snatched a piece of soap that lay in a broken saucer on the 
window, and began washing his hands in the bucket. When 
they were clean, he took out the axe, washed the blade and 
spent a long time, about three minutes, washing the wood 
where there were spots of blood rubbing them with soap. Then 
he wiped it all with some linen that was hanging to dry on a 
line in the kitchen and then he was a long while attentively 
examining the axe at the window. There was no trace left 
on it, only the wood was still damp. He carefully hung the 
axe in the noose under his coat. Then as far as was possible, 
in the dim light in the kitchen, he looked over his overcoat, 
his trousers and his boots. At the first glance there seemed 
to be nothing but stains on the boots. He wetted the rag and 
rubbed the boots. But he knew he was not looking thor- 


oughly, that there might be something quite noticeable that 
he was overlooking. He stood in the middle of the room, 
lost in thought. Dark agonising ideas rose in his mind—the 
idea that he was mad and that at that moment he was incapa- 
ble of reasoning, of protecting himself, that he ought perhaps 
to be doing something utterly different from what he was 
now doing. “Good God!” he muttered “I must fly, fly,” and 
he rushed into the entry. But here a shock of terror awaited 
him such as he had never known before. 

He stood and gazed and could not believe his eyes: the 
door, the outer door from the stairs, at which he had not 
long before waited and rung, was standing unfastened and 
at least six inches open. No lock, no bolt, all the time, all 
that time! The old woman had not shut it after him per- 
haps as a precaution. But, good God! Why, he had seen 
Lizaveta afterwards! And how could he, how could he 
have failed to reflect that she must have come in somehow! 
She could not have come through the wall! 

He dashed to the door and fastened the latch. 

“But no, the wrong thing again! I must get away, get 
away wei? 

He unfastened the latch, opened the door and began listen- 
ing on the staircase. 

He listened a long time. Somewhere far away, it might be 
in the gateway, two voices were loudly and shrilly shouting, 
quarrelling and scolding. “What are they about?” He 
waited patiently. At last all was still, as though suddenly 
cut off; they had separated. He was meaning to go out, but 
suddenly, on the floor below, a door was noisily opened and 
some one began going downstairs humming a tune. “How 
is it they all make such a noise!” flashed through his mind. 
Once more he closed the door and waited. At last all was 
still, not a soul stirring. He was just taking a step towards 
the stairs when he heard fresh footsteps. 

The steps sounded very far off, at the very bottom of the 
stairs, but he remembered quite clearly and distinctly that 
from the first sound he began for some reason to suspect that 
this was some one coming there, to the fourth floor, to the 
old woman. Why? Were the sounds somehow peculiar, sig- 
nificant? The steps were heavy, even and unhurried. Now 



he had passed the first floor, now he was mounting higher, 
it was growing more and more distinct! He could hear his 
heavy breathing. And now the third storey had been reached, 
Coming here! And it seemed to him all at once that he was 
turned to stone, that it was like a dream in which one is 
being pursued, nearly caught and will be killed, and is rooted 
to the spot and cannot even move one’s arms. 

At last when the unknown was mounting to the fourth 
floor, he suddenly started, and succeeded in slipping neatly 
and quickly back into the flat and closing the door behind 
him. Then he took the hook and softly, noiselessly, fixed 
it in the catch. Instinct helped him. When he had done this, 
he crouched holding his breath, by the door. The unknown 
visitor was by now also at the door. They were now standing 
opposite one another, as he had just before been standing 
with the old woman, when the door divided them and he 
was listening. 

The visitor panted several times. ‘He must be a big, fat 
man,” thought Raskolnikov, squeezing the axe in his hand, 
It seemed like a dream indeed. The visitor took hold of the 
bell and rang loudly. 

As soon as the tin bell tinkled, Raskolnikov seemed to be 
aware of something moving in the room. For some seconds 
he listened quite seriously. The unknown rang again, waited 
and suddenly tugged violently and impatiently at the handle 
of the door. Raskolnikov gazed in horror at the hook shak- 
ing in its fastening, and in blank terror expected every min- 
ute that the fastening would be pulled out. It certainly did 
seem possible, so violently was he shaking it. He was tempted 
to hold the fastening, but he might be aware of it. A gid- 
diness came over him again. “I shall fall down!” flashed 
through his mind, but the unknown began to speak and he 
recovered himself at once. 

“What’s up? Are they asleep or murdered? D-damn 
them !” he bawled in a thick voice. “Hey, Alyona Ivanovna, 
old witch! Lizaveta Ivanoyna, hey, my beauty! open the 
door! Oh, damn them! Are they asleep or what?” 

And again, enraged, he tugged with all his might a dozen 
times at the bell. He must certainly be a man of authority 
and an intimate acquaintance. 


At this moment light hurried steps were heard not far 
off, on the stairs. Some one else was approaching. Raskol- 
nikov had not heard them at first. 

“You don’t say there’s no one at home,” the new-comer 
cried in a cheerful, ringing voice, addressing the first visitor 
who still went on pulling the bell. “Good evening, Koch.” 

“From his voice he must be quite young,’ thought Ras- 

“Who the devil can tell? I’ve almost broken the locky”’ 
answered Koch. “But how do you come to know me?” 

“Why! The day before yesterday I beat you three times 
running at billiards at Gambrinus’.” 

“Oh hed 

“So they are not at home? That’s queer? It’s awfully 
stupid though. Where could the old woman have gone? 
I’ve come on business.” 

“Yes; and I have business with her, too.” 

“Well, what can we do? Go back, I suppose. Aie—aie! 
And I was hoping to get some money !” cried the young man. 

“We must give it up, of course, but what did she fix this 
_ time for? The old witch fixed the time for me to come her- 
self. It’s out of my way. And where the devil she can have 
got to, I can’t make out. She sits here from year’s end to 
year’s end, the old hag; her legs are bad and yet here all of 
a sudden she is out for a walk!” 

“Hadn’t we better ask the porter?” 


“Where she’s gone and when she’ll be back.” 

“Hm ... Damn it all! ... We might ask... But you 
know she never does go anywhere.” 

And he once more tugged at the door-handle. 

“Damn it all. There’s nothing to be done, we must go!” 

“Stay!” cried the young man suddenly. “Do you see how 
the door shakes if you pull it?’ 

“Well ?” 

“That shows it’s not locked, but fastened with the hook! 
Do you hear how the hook clanks?” 


“Why, don’t you see? That proves that one of them is at 
home. If they were all out, they would have locked the 


door from outside with the key and not with the hook from 
inside. There, do you hear how the hook is clanking? To 
fasten the hook on the inside they must be at home, don’t 
you see. So there they are sitting inside and don’t open the 
door !” 

“Well! And so they must be!” cried Koch, astonished. 
“What are they about in there!’ And he began furiously 
shaking the door. 

“Stay!” cried the young man again. “Don’t pull at it! 
There must be something wrong... Here, you've been 
ringing and pulling at the door and still they don’t open! So 
either they’ve both fainted or...” 

“What ?” 

“T tell you what. Let’s go and fetch the porter, let him 
wake them up.” 

“All right.” 

Both were going down. 

“Stay. You stop here while I run down for the porter.” 

“What for?” 

“Well, you'd better.” 

“All right.” 

“T’m studying the law you see! It’s evident, e-vi-dent 
there’s something wrong here!” the young man cried hotly, . 
and he ran downstairs. 

Koch remained. Once more he softly touched the bell 
which gave one tinkle, then gently, as though reflecting and 
looking about him, began touching the door handle, pulling 
it and letting it go to make sure once more that it was 
only fastened by the hook. Then puffing and panting 
he bent down and began looking at the keyhole: but the 
key was in the lock on the inside and so nothing could be 

Raskolnikov stood keeping tight hold of the axe. He was 
in a sort of delirium. He was even making ready to fight 
when they should come in. While they were knocking and 
talking together, the idea several times occurred to him to 
end it all at once and shout to them through the door. Now 
and then he was tempted to swear at them, to jeer at them, 
while they could not open the door! “Only make haste!” 
was the thought that flashed through his mind. 


“But what the devil is he about? ... ” Time was passing, 
one minute, and another—no one came. Koch began to be 

“What the devil?” he cried suddenly and in impatience 
deserting his sentry duty, he, too, went down, hurrying and 
thumping with his heavy boots on the stairs. The steps died 

“Good heavens! What am I to do?” 

Raskolnikov unfastened the hook, opened the door—there 
was no sound. Abruptly, without any thought at all, he went 
out, closing the door as thoroughly as he could, and went 

He had gone down three flights when he suddenly heard a 
loud noise below—where could he go! There was nowhere 
to hide. He was just going back to the flat. 

“Hey there! Catch the brute!” 

Somebody dashed out of a flat below, shouting, and rather 
fell than ran down the stairs, bawling at the top of his voice. 

“Mitka! Mitka! Mitka! Mitka!~ Mitka! Blast him!” 

The shout ended in a shriek; the last sounds came from the 
_ yard; all was still. But at the same instant several men 
talking loud and fast began noisily mounting the stairs. 
There were three or four of them. He distinguished the 
ringing voice of the young man. “They!” 

Filled with despair he went straight to meet them, feeling 
“come what must!” If they stopped him—all was lost; if 
they let him pass—all was lost too; they would remember 
him, They were approaching; they were only a flight from 
him—and suddenly deliverance! A few steps from him on 
the right, there was an empty flat with the door wide open, 
the flat on the second floor where the painters had been at 
work, and which, as though for his benefit, they had just left. 
It was they, no doubt, who had just run down, shouting. The 
floor had only just been painted, in the middle of the room 
stood a pail and a broken pot with paint and brushes. In 
one instant he had whisked in at the open door and hidden 
behind the wall and only in the nick of time; they had already 
reached the landing. Then they turned and went on up to 
the fourth floor, talking loudly. He waited, went out on tip- 
toe and ran down the stairs. 



No one was on the stairs, nor in the gateway. He passed 
quickly through the gateway and turned to the left in the 

He knew, he knew perfectly well that at that moment they 
were at the flat, that they were greatly astonished at finding 
it unlocked, as the door had just been fastened, that by now 
they were looking at the bodies, that before another minute 
had passed they would guess and completely realise that the 
murderer had just been there, and had succeeded in hiding 
somewhere, slipping by them and escaping. They would 
guess most likely that he had been in the empty flat, while 
they were going upstairs. And meanwhile he dared not 
quicken his pace much, though the next turning was still 
nearly a hundred yards away. “Should he slip through some 
gateway and wait somewhere in an unknown street? No, 
hopeless! Should he fling away the axe? Should he take a 
cab? Hopeless, hopeless!” 

At last he reached the turning. He turned down it more 
dead than alive. Here he was half way to safety, and he 
understood it; it was less risky because there was a great 
crowd of people, and he was lost in it like a grain of sand. 
But all he had suffered had so weakened him that he could 
scarcely move. Perspiration ran down him in drops, his neck 
was all wet. “My word, he has been going it!” some one 
shouted at him when he came out on the canal bank. 

He was only dimly conscious of himself now, and the 
farther he went the worse it was. He remembered, how- 
ever, that on coming out on to the canal bank, he was alarmed 
at finding few people there and so being more conspicuous, 
and he had thought of turning back. Though he was almost 
falling from fatigue, he went a long way round so as to get 
home from quite a different direction. 

He was not fully conscious when he passed through the 
gateway of his house; he was already on the staircase before 
he recollected the axe. And yet he had a very grave problem 
before him, to put it back and to escape observation as far 
as possible in doing so. He was of course incapable of 
reflecting that it might perhaps be far better not to restore 
the axe at all, but to drop it later on in somebody’s yard. 
But it all happened fortunately, the door of the porter’s room 


was closed but not locked, so that it seemed most likely that 
the porter was at home. But he had so completely lost all 
power of reflection that he walked straight to the door and 
opened it. If the porter had asked him “What do you want?” 
he would perhaps have simply handed him the axe. But 
again the porter was not at home, and he succeeded in putting 
the axe back under the bench and even covering it with the 
chunk of wood as before. He met no one, not a soul, after- 
wards on the way to his room; the landlady’s door was shut. 
When he was in his room, he flung himself on the sofa just 
as he was—he did not sleep, but sank into blank forgetfulness. 
If any one had come into his room then, he would have 
jumped up at once and screamed. Scraps and shreds of 
thoughts were simply swarming in his brain, but he could not 
catch at one, he could not rest on one, in spite of all his 
efforts » o e 



to wake up, and at such moments he noticed that it was 

far into the night, but it did not occur to him to get up. 
At last he noticed that it was beginning to get light. He was 
lying on his back, still dazed from:his recent oblivion. Fear- 
ful, despairing cries rose shrilly from the street, sounds which 
he heard every night, indeed, under his window after two 
o’clock. They woke him up now. 

“Ah! the drunken men are coming out of the taverns,” he 
thought, “it’s past two o’clock,” and at once he leaped up, as 
though some one had pulled him from the sofa. 

“What! Past two o'clock!” 

He sat down on the sofa—and instantly recollected every- 
thing! All at once, in one flash, he recollected everything. 

For the first moment he thought he was going mad. A 
dreadful chill came over him; but the chill was from the fever 
that had begun long before in his sleep. Now he was sud- 
denly taken with violent shivering, so that his teeth chattered 
and all his limbs were shaking. He opened the door and be- 
gan listening, everything in the house was asleep. With 
amazement he gazed at himself and everything in the room 
around him, wondering how he could have come in the 
night before without fastening the door, and have flung him- 
self on the sofa without undressing, without even taking his 
hat off. It had fallen off and was lying on the floor near 
his pillow. 

“If any one had come in, what would he have thought? 
That I’m drunk but .. .” 

He rushed to the window. There was light enough, and 
he began hurriedly looking himself all over from head to 


Ss" he lay a very long while. Now and then he seemed 


foot, all his clothes; were there no traces? But there was 
no doing it like that; shivering with cold, he began taking 
off everything and looking over again. He turned every- 
thing over to the last threads and rags, and mistrusting him- 
self, went through his search three times. 

But there seemed to be nothing, no trace, except in one 
place, where some thick drops of congealed blood were cling- 
ing to the frayed edge of his trousers. He picked up a big 
claspknife and cut off the frayed threads. There seemed to 
be nothing more. | 

Suddenly he remembered that the purse and the things he 
had taken out of the old woman’s box were still in his 
pockets! He had not thought till then of taking them out 
and hiding them! He had not even thought of them while 
he was examining his clothes! What next? Instantly he 
rushed to take them out and fling them on the table. When 
he had pulled out everything, and turned the pocket inside 
out to be sure there was nothing left, he carried the whole 
heap to the corner. The paper had come off the bottom 
of the wall and hung there in tatters. He began stuffing all 
_ the things into the hole under the paper: “They’re in! All 
out of sight, and the purse too!” he thought gleefully, get- 
ting up and gazing blankly at the hole which bulged out 
more than ever. Suddenly he shuddered all over with hor- 
ror; “My God!” he whispered in despair; ‘““what’s the matter 
with me? Is that hidden? Is that the way to hide things?” 

He had not reckoned on having trinkets to hide. He had 
only thought of money, and so had not prepared a hiding- 

“But now, now, what am I glad of?” he thought. “Is that 
hiding things? My reason’s deserting me—simply !” 

He sat down on the sofa in exhaustion and was at once 
shaken by another unbearable fit of shivering. Mechanically 
he drew from a chair beside him his old student’s winter 
coat, which was still warm though almost in rags, covered 
himself up with it and once more sank into drowsiness and 
delirium. He lost consciousness. 

Not more than five minutes had passed when he jumped 
tip a second time, and at once pounced in a frenzy on his 
clothes again. 


“How could I go to sleep again with nothing done? Yes, 
yes; I have not taken the loop off the armhole! I forgot it, 
forgot a thing like that! Such a piece of evidence!” 

He pulled off the noose, hurriedly cut it to pieces and threw 
the bits among his linen under the pillow. 

“Pieces of torn linen couldn’t rouse suspicion, whatever 
happened; I think not, I think not, any way!’ he repeated, 
standing in the middle of the room, and with painful concen- 
tration he fell to gazing about him again, at the floor and 
everywhere, trying to make sure he had not forgotten any- 

The conviction, that all his faculties, even memory, and 
the simplest power of reflection were failing him, began to 
be an insufferable torture. 

“Surely it isn’t beginning already! Surely it isn’t my 
punishment coming upon me? It is!” 

The frayed rags he had cut off his trousers were actually 
lying on the floor in the middle of the room, where any one 
coming in would see them! 

“What is the matter with me!” he cried again, like one 

Then a strange idea entered his head; that, perhaps, all his 
clothes were covered with blood, that, perhaps, there were 
a great many stains, but that he did not see them, did not 
notice them because his perceptions were failing, were going 
to pieces ... his reason was clouded. . . . Suddenly he re- 
membered that there had been blood on the purse too. “Ah! 
Then there must be blood on the pocket too, for I put the 
wet purse in my pocket!” 

In a flash he had turned the pocket inside out and, yes !— 
there were traces, stains on the lining of the pocket! 

“So my reason has not quite deserted me, so I still have 
some sense and memory, since I guessed it of myself,’ he 
thought triumphantly, with a deep sigh of relief: “It’s 
simply the weakness of fever, a moment’s delirium,’ and 
he tore the whole lining out of the left pocket of his trousers. 
At that instant the sunlight fell on his left boot; on the sock 
which poked out from the boot, he fancied there were traces! 
He flung off his boots; “traces indeed! The tip of the sock 
was soaked with blood;”’ he must have unwarily stepped 


into that pool.... “But what am I to do with this now? 
Where am I to put the sock and rags and pocket ?” 

He gathered them all up in his hands and stood in the 
middle of the room. 

“In the stove? But they would ransack the stove first of 
all. Burn them? But what can I burn them with? There 
are no matches even. No, better go out and throw it all 
away somewhere. Yes, better throw it away,” he repeated, 
sitting down on the sofa again, “and at once, this minute, 
without lingering .. .” 

But his head sank on the pillow instead. Again the un- 
bearable icy shivering came over him; again he drew his 
coat over him. 

And for a long while, for some hours, he was haunted by 
the impulse to “go off somewhere at once, this moment, and 
fling it all away, so that it may be out of sight and done 
with, at once, at once!” Several times he tried to rise from 
the sofa but could not. 

He was thoroughly waked up at last by a violent knocking 
at his door. 

“Open, do, are you dead or alive? He keeps sleeping 
here!” shouted Nastasya, banging with her fist on the door. 
“For whole days together he’s snoring here like a dog! A 
dog he is too. Open, I tell you. It’s past ten.” 

“Maybe he’s not at home,” said a man’s voice. 

“Ha! that’s the porter’s voice. . . . What does he want?” 

He jumped up and sat on the sofa. The beating of his 
heart was a positive pain. 

“Then who can have latched the door?” retorted Nastasya. 
“He’s taken to bolting himself in! As if he were worth 
stealing! Open, you stupid, wake up!” 

“What do they want? Why the porter? All’s discov- 
ered. Resist or open? Come what may!.. .” 

He half rose, stooped forward and unlatched the door. 

His room was so small that he could undo the latch with- 
out leaving the bed. Yes; the porter and Nastasya were 
standing here. 

Nastasya stared at him in a strange way. He glanced 
with a defiant and desperate air at the porter, who without a 
word held out a grey folded paper sealed with bottle-wax. 


“A notice from the office,” he announced, as he gave him 
the paper. 

“From what office?” 

“A summons to the police office, of course. You know 
which office.” 

“To the police? ... What for? .. .” 

“How can I tell? You’re sent for, so you go.” 

The man looked at him attentively, looked round the room 
and turned to go away. 

“He’s downright ill!” observed Nastasya, not taking her 
eyes off him. The porter turned his head for a moment. 
“He’s been in a fever since yesterday,” she added. 

Raskolnikov made no response and held the paper in his 
hands, without opening it. 

“Don’t you get up then,’ Nastasya went on compassion- 
ately, seeing that he was letting his feet down from the sofa. 
“You're ill, and so don’t go; there’s no such hurry. What 
have you got there?” 

He looked; in his right hand he held the shreds he had cut 
from his trousers, the sock,’ and the rags of the pocket. 
So he had been asleep with them in his hand. Afterwards 
reflecting upon it, he remembered that half waking up in 
his fever, he had grasped all this tightly in his hand and so 
fallen asleep again. 

“Look at the rags he’s collected and sleeps with them, as 
though he has got hold of a treasure . . .” 

And Nastasya went off into her hysterical giggle. 

Instantly he thrust them all under his great coat and fixed 
his eyes intently upon her. Far as he was from being 
capable of rational reflection at that moment, he felt that 
no one would behave like that with a person who was going 
to be arrested. “But... the police?” 

“You'd better have some tea! Yes? I'll bring it, there’s 
some left.” 

“No... Im going; I'll go at once,” he muttered, getting 
on his feet. | 

“Why, you'll never get downstairs!” 

“Ves, Ill go.” 

“As you please.” 

She followed the porter out. 


At once he rushed to the light to examine the sock and the 

“There are stains, but not very noticeable; all covered with 
dirt, and rubbed and already discoloured. No one who had 
no suspicion could distinguish anything. Nastasya from a 
distance could not have noticed, thank God!” Then with a 
tremor he broke the seal of the notice and began reading; 
he was a long while reading, before he understood. It was 
an ordinary summons from the district police-station to ap- 
pear that day at half past nine at the office of the district 

“But when has such a thing happened? I never have any- 
thing to do with the police! And why just to-day?” he 
thought in agonising bewilderment. “Good God, only get it 
over soon!” 

He was flinging himself on his knees to pray, but 
broke into laughter—not at the idea of prayer, but at 

He began, hurriedly dressing, “if I’m lost, I am lost, I 
don’t care! Shall I put the sock on?” he suddenly wondered, 
“it will get dustier still and the traces will be gone,” 

But no sooner had he put it on than he pulled it off again 
in loathing and horror. He pulled it off, but reflecting that 
he had no other socks, he picked it up and put it on again— 
and again he laughed, 

“That’s all conventional, that’s all relative, merely a way 
of looking at it,’ he thought in a flash, but only on the top 
surface of his mind, while he was shuddering all over, “‘there, 
I’ve got it on! I have finished by getting it on!” 

But his laughter was quickly followed by despair. 

“No, it’s too much for me...” he thought. His legs 
shook. “From fear,” he muttered. His head swam and 
ached with fever. “It’s a trick! They want to decoy me 
there and confound me over everything,’ he mused, as he 
went out on to the stairs—‘“the worst of it is I’m almost 
light-headed. . . . I may blurt out something stupid .. .” 

On the stairs he remembered that he was leaving all the 
things just as they were in the hole in the wall, “and very 
likely, it’s on purpose to search when I’m out,” he thought, 
and stopped short. But he was possessed by such despair, 


such cynicism of misery, if one may so call it, that with a 
wave of his hand he went on. “Only to get it over!” 

In the street the heat was insufferable again; not a drop 
of rain had fallen all those days. Again dust, bricks and 
mortar, again the stench from the shops and pot-houses, 
again the drunken men, the Finnish pedlars and half-broken- 
down cabs. The sun shone straight in his eyes, so that it 
hurt him to look out of them, and he felt his head going 
round—as a man in a fever is apt to feel when he comes out 
into the street on a bright sunny day. 

When he reached the turning into the street, in an agony 
of trepidation he looked down it... at the house... and 
at once averted his eyes. 

“If they question me, perhaps Vl simply tell,” he thought, 
as he drew near the police-station. 

The police-station was about a quarter of a mile off. It 
had lately been moved to new rooms on the fourth floor of a 
new house. He had been once for a moment in the old 
office, but long ago. Turning in at the gateway, he saw on 
the right a flight of stairs which a peasant was mount- 
ing with a book in his hand. “A house-porter, no doubt; 
so then, the office is here,” and he began ascending the 
Stairs on the chance. He did not want to ask questions of 
any one. 

“T’ll go in, fall on my knees, and confess everything ... 
he thought, as he reached the fourth floor. 

The staircase was steep, narrow and all sloppy with dirty 
water. The kitchens of the flats opened on to the stairs and 
stood open almost the whole day. So there was a fearful 
smell and heat. The staircase was crowded with porters 
going up and down with their books under their arms, police- 
men, and persons of all sorts and both sexes. The door of 
the office, too, stood wide open. Peasants stood waiting 
within. There, too, the heat was stifling and there was a 
sickening smell of fresh paint and stale oil from the newly 
decorated rooms. 

After waiting a little, he decided to move forward into the 
next room. All the rooms were small and low-pitched. A 
fearful impatience drew him on and on. No one paid atten- 
tion to him. In the second room some clerks sat writing, 



dressed hardly better than he was, and rather a queer-looking 
set. He went up to one of them. 

“What is it?” 

He showed the notice he had received. 

“You are a student?” the man asked, glancing at the notice. 

“Yes, formerly a student.” 

The clerk looked at him, but without the slightest interest. 
He was a particularly unkempt person with the look of a> 
fixed idea in his eye. 

“There would be no getting anything out of him, becarae 
he has no interest in anything,” thought Raskolnikov. 

“Go in there to the head clerk,” said the clerk, pointing 
towards the furthest room. 

He went into that room—the fourth in order; it was a 
small room and packed full of people, rather better dressed 
than in the outer rooms. Among them were two ladies. 
One, poorly dressed in mourning, sat at the table opposite the 
chief clerk, writing something at his dictation. The other, a 
very stout, buxom woman with a purplish-red, blotchy face, 
excessively smartly dressed with a brooch on her bosom as 
_ big as a saucer, was standing on one side, apparently waiting 
for something. Raskolnikov thrust his notice upon the head 
clerk. The latter glanced at it, said: “Wait a minute,” and 
went on attending to the lady in mourning. 

He breathed more freely. “It can’t be that!” 

By degrees he began to regain confidence, he kept urging 
himself to have courage and be calm. 

“Some foolishness, some trifling carelessness, and I may 
betray myself! Hm!... it’s a pity there’s no air here,” he 
added, “it’s stifling ... It makes one’s head dizzier than 
ever... and one’s mind to...” 

He was conscious of a terrible inner turmoil. He was 
afraid of losing his self-control; he tried to catch at some- 
thing and fix his mind on it, something quite irrelevant, but 
he could not succeed in this at all. Yet the head clerk greatly 
interested him, he kept hoping to see through him and guess 
something from his face. 

He was a very young man, about two and twenty, with a 
dark mobile face that looked older than his years. He was 
fashionably dressed and foppish, with his hair parted in the 


middle, well combed and pomaded, and wore a number of 
rings on his well-scrubbed fingers and a gold chain on 
his waistcoat. He said a couple of words in French to 
a foreigner who was in the room, and said them fairly 

“Luise Ivanovna, you can sit down,” he said casually to 
the gaily-dressed, purple-faced lady, who was still standing 
as though not venturing to sit down, though there was a chair 
beside her. 

“Ich danke,” said the latter, and softly, with a rustle of silk 
she sank into the chair. Her light blue dress trimmed with 
white lace floated about the table like an air-balloon and 
filled almost half the room. She smelt of scent. But she 
was obviously embarrassed at filling half the room and 
smelling so strongly of scent; and though her smile was 
impudent as well as cringing, it betrayed evident uneasiness. 

The lady in mourning had done at last, and got up. All 
at once, with some noise, an officer walked in very jauntily, 
with a peculiar swing of his shoulders at each step. He 
tossed his cockaded cap on the table and sat down in an 
easy-chair. The smart lady positively skipped from her seat 
on seeing him, and fell to curtsying in a sort of ecstasy; but 
the officer took not the smallest notice of her, and she did 
not venture to sit down again in his presence. He was the 
assistant superintendent. He had a reddish moustache that 
stood out horizontally on each side of his face, and extremely 
small features, expressive of nothing much except a certain 
insolence. He looked askance and rather indignantly at 
Raskolnikov; he was so very badly dressed, and in spite of 
his humiliating position, his bearing was by no means in 
keeping with his clothes. Raskolnikov had unwarily fixed a 
very long and direct look on him, so that he felt positively 

“What do you want?” he shouted, apparently astonished 
that such a ragged fellow was not annihilated by the majesty 
of his glance. 

“I was summoned... by a notice...” Raskolnikov 

“For the recovery of money due, from the student,’ the 
head clerk interfered hurriedly, tearing himself from his 


papers. “Here!” and he flung Raskolnikov a document and 
pointed out the place. “Read that!” 

“Money? What money?” thought Raskolnikov, “but... 
then . . . it’s certainly not that.” 

And he trembled with joy. He felt sudden intense inde- 
scribable relief. A load was lifted from his back. 

“And pray, what time were you directed to appear, sir?” 
shouted the assistant superintendent, seeming for some un- 
known reason more and more aggrieved. “You are told,to 
come at nine, and now it’s twelve!” 

“The notice was only brought me a quarter of an hour 
ago,’ Raskolnikov answered loudly over his shoulder. To 
his own surprise he, too, grew suddenly angry and found a 
certain pleasure in it. “And it’s enough that I have come 
here ill with fever.” 

“Kindly refrain from shouting !” 

“T’m not shouting, I’m speaking very quietly, it’s you who 
are shouting at me. I’m a student, and allow no one to shout 
at me.” 

The assistant superintendent was so furious that for the 
first minute he could only splutter inarticulately. He leaped 
up from his seat. 

“Be silent! You are in a government office. Don’t be 
impudent, sir!” ; 

“You're in a government office, too,” cried Raskolnikov, 
“and you’re smoking a cigarette as well as shouting, so you 
are showing disrespect to all of us.” 

He felt an indescribable satisfaction at having said this. 

The head clerk looked at him with a smile. The angry 
assistant superintendent was obviously disconcerted. 

“That’s not your business!” he shouted at last with un- 
natural loudness. “Kindly make the declaration demanded 
of you. Show him, Alexander Grigorievitch. There is a com- 
plaint against you! You don’t pay your debts! You're a fine 

But Raskolnikov was not listening now; he had eagerly 
clutched at the paper, in haste to find an explanation. 
He read it once, and a second time, and still did not under- 

“What is this?” he asked the head clerk. 


“It is for the recovery of money on an I. 0. U., a writ. You 
must either pay it, with all expenses, costs and so on, or give 
a written declaration when you can pay it, and at the same 
time an undertaking not to leave the capital without payment, 
and not to sell or conceal your property. The creditor is at 
liberty to sell your property, and proceed against you accord- 
ing to the law.” 

“But I... am not in debt to any one!” 

“That’s not our business. Here, an 1. 0. uv. for a hundred 
and fifteen roubles, legally attested, and due for payment, has 
been brought us for recovery, given by you to the widow 
of the assessor Zarnitsyn, nine months ago, and,\paid over by 
the widow Zarnitsyn to one Mr. Tchebarov. We therefore 
summon you, hereupon.” 

“But she is my landlady !” 

“And what if she is your landlady?” 

The head clerk looked at him with a condescending smile 
of compassion, and at the same time with a certain triumph, 
as at a novice under fire for the first time—as though he 
would say: “Well, how do you feel now?” But what did he 
care now for an 1. 0. U., for a writ of recovery! Was that 
worth worrying about now, was it worth attention even! 
He stood, he read, he listened, he answered, he even asked 
questions himself, but all mechanically.. The triumphant 
sense of security, of deliverance from overwhelming danger, 
that was what filled his whole soul that moment without 
thought for the future, without analysis, without suppositions 
or surmises, without doubts and without questioning. It was 
an instant of full, direct, purely instinctive joy. But at that 
very moment something like a thunderstorm took place in the 
office. The assistant superintendent, still shaken by Ras- 
kolnikov’s disrespect, still fuming and obviously anxious to 
keep up his wounded dignity, pounced on the unfortunate 
smart lady, who had been gazing at him ever since he came 
in with an exceedingly silly smile. 

“You shameful hussy!” he shouted suddenly at the top of 
his voice. (The lady in mourning had left the office.) “What 
was going on at your house last night? Eh? A disgrace 
again, you’re a scandal to the whole street. Fighting and 
drinking again. Do you want the house of correction? Why, 


I have warned you ten times over that I would not let you 
off the eleventh! And here you are again, again, you... 
FORM aes 

The paper fell out of Raskolnikov’s hands, and he looked 
wildly at the smart lady who was so unceremoniously treated. 
But he soon saw what it meant, and at once began to find 
positive amusement in the scandal. He listened with pleasure, 
so that he longed to laugh and laugh . . . all his nerves were 
on edge. 

“Ilya Petrovitch!” the head clerk was beginning anxiou$ly, 
but stopped short, for he knew from experience that the en- 
raged assistant could not be stopped except by force. 

As for the smart lady, at first she positively trembled be- 
fore the storm. But strange to say, the more numerous and 
violent the terms of abuse became, the more amiable she 
looked, and the more seductive the smiles she lavished on the 
terrible assistant. She moved uneasily, and curtsied inces- 
santly, waiting impatiently for a chance of putting in her 
word; and at last she found it. 

“There was no sort of noise or fighting in my house, Mr. 
Captain,” she pattered all at once, like peas dropping, speak- 
ing Russian confidently, though with a strong German accent, 
“and no sort of scandal, and his honour came drunk, and it’s 
the whole truth I ‘am telling, Mr. Captain, and I am not to 
blame. . . . Mine is an honourable house, Mr. Captain, and 
honourable behaviour, Mr. Captain, and I always, always dis- 
like any scandal myself. But he came quite tipsy, and asked 
for three bottles again, and then he lifted up one leg, and 
began playing the pianoforte with one foot, and that is not 
at all right in an honourable house, and he ganz broke the 
piano, and it was very bad manners indeed and I said so. 
And he took up a bottle and began hitting every one with it. 
And then I called the porter, and Karl came, and he took 
Karl and hit him in the eye; and he hit Henriette in the eye, 
too, and gave me five slaps on the cheek. And it was so 
ungentlemanly in an honourable house, Mr. Captain, and 
I screamed. And he opened the window over the canal, and 
stood in the window, squealing like a little pig; it was a 
disgrace. The idea of squealing like a little pig at the win- 
dow into the street! Fie upon him! And Karl pulled him 


away from the window by his coat, and it is true, Mr. Cap- 
tain, he tore sein rock. And then he shouted that man muss 
pay him fifteen roubles damages. And I did pay him, Mr. 
Captain, five roubles for sein rock. And he is an ungentle-~ 
manly visitor and caused all the scandal. ‘I will show 
you up,’ he said, ‘for I can write to all the papers about 
you.’ ? 

“Then he was an author?” 

“Yes, Mr. Captain, and what an ungentlemanly visitor in 
an honourable house... ” 

“Now then! Enough! I have told you already... 

“Ilya Petrovitch!” the head clerk repeated significantly. 

The assistant glanced rapidly at him; the head clerk slightly 
shook his head. 

“,.. So I tell you this, most respectable Luise Ivanovna, 
and I tell it you for the last time,” the assistant went on. 
“If there is a scandal in your honourable house once again, I 
will put you yourself in the lock-up, as it is called in polite 
society. Do you hear? So a literary man, an author took 
five roubles for his coat-tail in an ‘honourable house’? A 
nice set, these authors!” 

And he cast a contemptuous glance at Raskolnikov. “There 
was a scandal the other day in a restaurant, too. An author 
had eaten his dinner and would not pay; ‘I’ll write a satire on 
you,’ says he. And there was another of them on a steamer. 
last week used the most disgraceful language to the respec- 
table family of a civil councilor, his wife and daughter. And 
there was one of them turned out of a confectioner’s shop 
the other day. They are like that, authors, literary men, 
students, town-criers ... Pfoo! You get along! I shall 
look in upon you myself one day. Then you had better be 
careful! Do you hear?” 

With hurried deference, Luise Ivanovna fell to curtsying 
in all directions, and so curtsied herself to the door. But at 
the door, she stumbled backwards against a good-looking 
officer with a fresh, open face and splendid thick fair 
whiskers. This was the superintendent of the district himself, 
Nikodim Fomitch. Luise Ivanovna made haste to curtsy 
almost to the ground, and with mincing little steps, she 
fluttered out of the office. 



“Again thunder and lightning—a hurricane!” said Nikodim 
Fomitch to Ilya Petrovitch in a civil and friendly tone. “You 
are aroused again, you are fuming again! I heard it on the 
stairs !” 

“Well, what then!” Ilya Petrovitch drawled, with gentle- 
manly nonchalance; and he walked with some papers to 
another table, with a jaunty swing of his shoulders at each 
step. “Here, if you will kindly look: an author, or a student, 
has been one at least, does not pay his debts, has given an 
I. 0. U. won’t clear out of his room, and complaints are con- 
stantly being lodged against him, and here he has been 
pleased to make a protest against my smoking in his presence! 
He behaves like a cad himself, and just look at him, please. 
Here’s the gentleman, and very attractive he is!” 

“Poverty is not a vice, my friend, but we know you go 
off like powder, you can’t bear a slight. I daresay you took 
offence at something and went too far yourself,” continued 
Nikodim Fomitch, turning affably to Raskolnikov. “But 
you are wrong there; he is a capital fellow, I assure you, 
but explosive, explosive! He gets hot, fires up, boils over, 
_ and no stopping him! And then it’s all over! And at the 

bottom he’s a heart of gold! His nickname in the regiment 
was the Explosive Lieutenant... ” 

“And what a regiment it was, too;” cried Ilya Petrovitch, 
much gratified at this agreeable banter, though still sulky. 

Raskolnikov had a sudden desire to say something excep- 
tionally pleasant to them all. “Excuse me, Captain,” he 
began easily, suddenly addressing Nikodim Fomitch, “will 
you enter into my position. ... I am ready to ask pardon, 
if I have been ill-mannered. I am a poor student, sick 
and shattered (shattered was the word he used) by poverty. 
I am not studying, because I cannot keep myself now, 
but I shall get money. ...I have a mother and sister 
in the province of X. They will send it me, and I will 
pay. My landlady is a good-hearted woman, but she is so 
exasperated at my having lost my lessons, and not paying 
her for the last four months, that she does not even send 
up my dinner . . . and I don’t understand this 1. o. v. at all. 
She is asking me to pay her on this 1. 0. u. How am I to 
pay her? Judge for yourselves! ...” 


_ “But that is not our business, you know,” the head clerk 
was observing. 

“Yes, yes. I perfectly agree with you. But allow me to 
explain...” Raskolnikov put in again, still addressing 
Nikodim Femitch, but trying his best to address Ilya 
Petrovitch also, though the latter persistently appeared to 
be rummaging among his papers and to be contemptuously 
oblivious of him. “Allow me to explain that I have been 
living with her for nearly three years and at first... at 
first ... for why should I not confess it at the very begin- 
ning I promised to marry her daughter, it was a verbal 
promise, freely given ...she was a girl... indeed, 1 
liked her, though I was not in love with her ... a youth- 
ful affair in fact... that is, I mean to say, that my land- 
lady gave me credit freely in those days, and I led a life 
of ...I was very heedless.... 

“Nobody asks you for these personal details, sir, we’ve no 
time to waste.” Ilya Petrovitch interposed roughly and 
with a note of triumph; but Raskolnikov stopped him 
hotly, though he suddenly found it exceedingly difficult to 

“But excuse me, excuse me. It is for me to explain... 
how it all happened ...In my turn... though I agree 
with you... it is unnecessary. But a year ago, the girl 
died of typhus. I remained lodging there as before, and 
when my landlady moved into her present quarters, she said 
to me... and in a friendly way... that she had com- 
plete trust in me, but still, would I not give her an 1. o. u. 
for one hundred and fifteen roubles, all the debt I owed her 
She said if only I gave her that, she would trust me again, 
as much as I liked, and that she would never, never— those 
were her own words—make use of that 1. 0. vu. till I could 
pay of myself ... and now, when I have lost my lessons 
and have nothing to eat, she takes action against me. 
What am I to say to that?” 

“All these affecting details are no business of ours,” 
Ilya Petrovitch interrupted rudely. “You must give a 
written undertaking, but as for your love affairs and all 
these tragic events, we have nothing to do with that.” 

“Come now... you are harsh,” muttered Nikodim 


Fomitch, sitting down at the table and also beginning to 
write. He looked a little ashamed. 

“Write!” said the head clerk to Raskolnikov. 

“Write what?” the latter asked gruffly. 

“T will dictate to you.” 

Raskolnikov fancied that the head clerk treated him more 
casually and contemptuously after his speech, but strange 
to say he suddenly felt completely indifferent to any one’s 
opinion, and this revulsion took place in a flash, in one 
instant. If he had cared to think a little, he would have 
been amazed indeed that he could have talked to them like 
that a minute before, forcing his feelings upon them. And 
where had those feelings come from? Now if the whole 
room had been filled, not with police officers, but with 
those nearest and dearest to him, he would not have found 
one human word for them, so empty was his heart. A 
gloomy sensation of agonising, everlasting solitude and 
remoteness, took conscious form in his soul. It was not 
the meanness of his sentimental effusions before Ilya Petro- 
vitch, nor the meanness of the latter’s triumph over him 
that had caused this sudden revulsion in his heart. Oh, 
~ what had he to do now with his own baseness, with all 
these petty vanities, officers, German women, debts, police- 
offices? If he had been sentenced to be burnt at that 
moment, he would not have stirred, would hardly have 
heard the sentence to the end. Something was happen- 
ing to him entirely new, sudden and unknown. It was 
not that he understood, but he felt clearly with all the 
intensity of sensation that he could never more appeal to 
these people in the police-office with sentimental effusions 
like his recent outburst, or with anything whatever; and 
that if they had been his own brothers and sisters and not 
police-officers, it would have been utterly out of the ques- 
tion to appeal to them in any circumstance of life. He 
had never experienced such a strange and awful sensation. 
And what was most agonising—it was more a sensation than 
a conception or idea, a direct sensation, the most agonising 
of all the sensations he had known in his life. 

The head clerk began dictating to him the usual form of 
declaration, that he could not pay, that he undertook to do 

Ay fige ot cee SANE Baw 8) 
PS eieoao : 


so at a future date, that he would not leave the town, 
nor sell his property, and so on. 

“But you can’t write, you can hardly hold the pen,” 
observed the head clerk, looking with curiosity at 
Raskolnikov. “Are you ill?” 

“Yes, I am giddy. Go on!” 

“That’s all. Sign it.” 

The head clerk took the paper, and turned to attend to 

Raskolnikov gave back the pen; but instead of getting up 
and going away, he put his elbows on the table and pressed 
his head in his hands. He felt as if a nail were being 
driven into his skull. A strange idea suddenly occurred to 
him, to get up at once, to go up to Nikodim Fomitch, and 
tell him everything that had happened yesterday, and then 
to go with him to his lodgings and to show him the things 
in the hole in the corner. The impulse was so strong that 
he got up from his seat to carry it out. “Hadn't I better 
think a minute?” flashed through his mind. “No, better 
cast off the burden without thinking.” But all at once he 
stood still, rooted to the spot. Nikodim Fomitch was talk- 
ing eagerly with Ilya Petrovitch, and the words reached 
him : 

“Tt’s impossible, they’ll both be released. To begin with, 
the whole story contradicts itself. Why should they have 
called the porter, if it had been their doing? To inform 
against themselves? Or as a blind? No, that would be 
too cunning! Besides, Pestryakov, the student, was seen 
at the gate by both the porters and a woman as he went 
in. He was walking with three friends, who left him only 
at the gate, and he asked the porters to direct him, in the 
presence of the friends. Now, would he have asked his 
way if he had been going with such an object? As for 
Koch, he spent half an hour at the silversmith’s. below, 
before he went up to the old woman and he left him at 
exactly a quarter to eight. Now just consider .. .” 

“But excuse me, how do you explain this contradiction? 
They state themselves that they knocked and the door was 
locked; yet three minutes later when they went up with the 
porter, it turned out the door was unfastened.” 



“That’s just it; the murderer must have been there and 
bolted himself in; and they’d have caught him for a certainty 
if Koch had not been an ass and gone to look for the 
porter too. He must have seized the interval to get down- 
stairs and slip by them somehow. Koch keeps crossing 
himself and saying: ‘If I had been there, he would have 
jumped out and killed me with his axe.’ He is going to 
have a thanksgiving service—ha, ha!” 

“And no one saw the murderer ?” 

“They might well not see him; the house is a regular 
Noah’s Ark,” said the head clerk, who was listening, 

“Tt’s clear, quite clear,” Nikodim Fomitch. repeated 
warmly. 7 

“No, it is anything but clear,” Ilya Petrovitch maintained. 

Raskolnikov picked up his hat and walked towards the 
door, but he did not reach it. ..,. 

When he recovered consciousness, he found himself sitting 
in a chair, supported by some one on the right side, while 
some one else was standing on the left, holding a yellowish 
glass filled with yellow water, and Nikodim Fomitch stand- 
ing before him, looking intently at him. He got up from 
the chair, 

“What’s this? Are you ill?” Nikodim Fomitch asked, 
rather sharply. 

“He could hardly hold his pen when he was signing,” said 
the head clerk, settling back in his place, and taking up his 
work again. 

“Have you been ill long?” cried Ilya Petrovitch from his 
place, where he, too, was looking through papers. He had, 
of course, come to look at the sick man when he fainted, 
but retired at once when he recovered, 

“Since yesterday,” muttered Raskolnikov in reply. 

“Did you go out yesterday ?” 

“Ves.” H 

“Though you were ill?” 

"Y es.” 

“At what time?” 

“About seven.” 

“And where did you go, may I ask?” 

“Along the street.” 


“Short and clear.” 

Raskolnikov, white as a handkerchief, had answered 
sharply, jerkily, without dropping his black feverish eyes 
before Ilya Petrovitch’s stare. 

“He can scarcely stand upright. And you. . .”—-Nikodim 
Fomitch was beginning. 

“No matter.” Ilya Petrovitch pronounced rather pecu- 

Nikodim Fomitch would have made some further protest, 
but glancing at the head clerk who was looking very hard 
at him, he did not speak. There was a sudden silence. It 
was strange. 

“Very well, then,” concluded Ilya Petrovitch, “we will not 
detain you.” 

Raskolnikov went out. He caught the sound of eager con- 
versation on his departure, and above the rest rose the ques- 
tioning voice of Nikodim Fomitch. In the street, his faint- 
ness passed off completely. 

“A search—there will be a search at once,” he repeated to 
himself, hurrying home. “The brutes! they suspect.” 

His former terror mastered him completely again. 

i Y what if there has been a search already? What 

if I find them in the room?” 

But here was his room. Nothing and no one in 
it. No one had peeped in. Even Nastasya had not touched 
it. But heavens! how could he have left all those things in 
the hole? 

He rushed to the corner, slipped his hand under the paper, 
pulled the things out and filled his pockets with them. There 
were eight articles in all: two little boxes with ear-rings or 
something of the sort, he hardly looked to see; then four 
small leather cases. There was a chain, too, merely wrapped 
in newspaper and something else in newspaper, that looked 
like a decoration. ... He put them all in the different 
pockets of his overcoat, and the remaining pocket of his 
trousers, trying to conceal them as much as possible. He 
took the purse, too. Then he went out of his room, leaving 
the door open. He walked quickly and resolutely, and though 
he felt shattered, he had his senses about him. He was 
afraid of pursuit, he was afraid that in another half-hour, 
another quarter of an hour perhaps, instructions would be 
issued for his pursuit, and so at all costs, he must hide all 
traces before then. He must clear everything up while he 
still had some strength, some reasoning power left him. ... 
Where was he to go? | 

That had long been settled: “Fling them into the canal, 
and all traces hidden in the water, the thing would be at an 
end.” So he had decided in the night of his delirium when 
several times he had had the impulse to get up and go away, 
to make haste, and get rid of it all. But to get rid of it, 
turned out to be a very difficult task. He wandered along 
the bank of the Ekaterininsky Canal for half an hour or 
more and looked several times at the steps running down 
to the water, but he could not think of carrying out his plan; 
either rafts stood at the steps’ edge, and women were wash- 




ing clothes on them, or boats were moored there, and people 
were swarming everywhere. Moreover he could be seen and 
noticed from the banks on all sides; it would look suspicious 
for a man to go down on purpose, stop, and throw something 
into the water. And what if the boxes were to float instead 
of sinking? And of course they would. Even as it was, 
every one he met seemed to stare and look round, as if they 
had nothing to do but to watch him. “Why is it, or can it 
be my fancy?” he thought. 

At last the thought struck him that it might be better to 
go to the Neva. There were not so many people there, he 
would be less observed, and it would be more convenient in 
every way, above all it was further off. He wondered how 
he could have been wandering for a good half-hour, worried 
and anxious in this dangerous part without thinking of it 
before. And that half-hour he had lost over an irrational 
plan, simply because he had thought of it in delirium! He 
had become extremely absent and forgetful and he was 
aware of it. He certainly must make haste. 

He walked towards the Neva along V Prospect, but on 
the way another idea struck him. “Why to the Neva? 
Would it not be better to go somewhere far off, to the Islands 
again, and there hide the things in some solitary place, in a 
wood or under a bush, and mark the spot perhaps?” And 
though he felt incapable of clear judgment, the idea seemed 
to him a sound one. But he was not destined to go there. 
For coming out of V- Prospect towards the square, he 
saw on the left a passage leading between two blank walls to 
a courtyard. On the right hand, the blank unwhitewashed 
wall of a four-storied house stretched far into the court; on 
the left, a wooden hoarding ran parallel with it for twenty 
paces into the court, and then turned sharply to the left. 
Here was a deserted fenced-off place where rubbish of differ- 
ent sorts was lying. At the end of the court, the corner. of 
a low, smutty, stone shed, apparently part of some workshop 
peeped from behind the hoarding. It was probably a car- 
riage builder’s or carpenter’s shed; the whole place from the 
entrance was black with coal dust. Here would be the place 
to throw it, he thought. Not seeing any one in the yard, he 
slipped in, and at once saw near the gate a sink, such as is 


often put in yards where there are many workmen or cab- 
drivers; and on the hoarding above had been scribbled in 
chalk the time-honoured witticism, “Standing here strictly 
forbidden.” This was all the better, for there would be 
nothing suspicious about his going in. “Here I could throw 
it all in a heap and get away!” 

Looking round once more, with his hand already in his 
pocket, he noticed against the outer wall, between the en- 
trance and the sink, a big unhewn stone, weighing perhaps 
sixty pounds. The other side of the wall was a street. “He 
could hear passers-by, always numerous in that part, but he 
could not be seen from the entrance, unless some one came 
in from the street, which might well happen indeed, so there 
was need of haste. 

He bent down over the stone, seized the top of it firmly in 
both hands, and using all his strength turned it over. Under 
the stone was a small hollow in the ground, and he immedi- 
ately emptied his pocket into it. The purse lay at the top, 
and yet the hollow was not filled up. Then he seized the 
stone again and with one twist turned it back, so that it was 
in the same position again, though it stood a very little 
higher. But he scraped the earth about it and pressed it at 
the edges with his foot. Nothing could be noticed. 

Then he went out, and turned into the square. Again an 
intense, almost unbearable joy overwhelmed him for an 
instant, as it had in the police office. “I have buried my 
tracks! And who, who can think of looking under that 
stone? It has been lying there most likely ever since the 
house was built, and will lie as many years more. And if it 
were found, who would think of me? It is all over! No 
clue!” And he laughed. Yes, he remembered that he began 
laughing a thin, nervous noiseless laugh, and went on laugh. 
ing all the time he was crossing the square. But when he 
reached the K Boulevard where two days before he had 
come upon that girl, his laughter suddenly ceased. Other 
ideas crept into his mind. He felt all at once that it would 
be loathsome to pass that seat on which after the girl was 
gone, he had sat and pondered, and that it would be hateful, 
too, to meet that whiskered policeman to whom he had given 
the twenty copecks: “Damn him!” 


He walked, looking about him angrily and distractedly. 
All his ideas now seemed to be circling round some single 
point; and he felt that there really was such a point, and 
that now, now, he was left facing that point—and for the 
first time, indeed, during the last two months. 

“Damn it all!” he thought suddenly, in a fit of ungovern- 
able fury. “If it has begun, then it has begun. Hang the 
new life! Good Lord, how stupid it is! . .. And what lies 
I told to-day! How despicably I fawned upon that wretched 
Ilya Petrovitch! But that is all folly! What do I care for 
them all, and my fawning upon them! It is not that at all! 
It is not that at all!” 

Suddenly he stopped; a new utterly unexpected and exceed- 
ingly simple question perplexed and bitterly confounded him. 

“If it all has really been done deliberately and not idi- 
otically, if I really had a certain and definite object, how is 
it I did not even glance into the purse and don’t know what 
I had there, for which I have undergone these agonies, and 
have deliberately undertaken this base, filthy, degrading busi- 
ness? And here I wanted at once to throw into the water 
the purse together with all the things which I had not seen 
either . . . how’s that?” 

Yes, that was so, that was all so. Yet he had known it all 
before, and it was not a new question for him, even when it 
was decided in the night without hesitation and considera- 
tion, as though so it must be, as though it could not possibly 
be otherwise. ... Yes, he had known it all, and understood 
it all; it surely had all been settled even yesterday at the 
moment when he was bending over the box and pulling the 
jewel-cases out of it. ... Yes, so it was. 

“It is because I am very ill,” he decided grimly at last, “I 
have been worrying and fretting myself, and I don’t know 
what I am doing. .. . Yesterday and the day before yester- 
day and all this time I have been worrying myself... . I 
shall get well and I shall not worry. . . . But what if I don’t 
get well at all? Good God, how sick I am of it all!” 

He walked on without resting. He had a terrible longing 
for some distraction, but he did not know what to do, what 
to attempt. A new overwhelming sensation was gaining 
more and more mastery over him every moment; this was an 


immeasurable, almost physical, repulsion for everything sur- 
rounding him, an obstinate, malignant feeling of hatred. All 
who met him were loathsome to him—he loathed their faces, 
their movements, their gestures. If any one had addressed 
him, he felt that he might have spat at him or bitten 
Di Ga. si 

He stopped suddenly, on coming out on the bank of the 
Little Neva, near the bridge to Vassilyevsky Ostrov. “Why, 
he lives here, in that house,” he thought, “why, I have not 
come to Razumihin of my own accord! Here it’s the same 
thing over again.... Very interesting to know, though; 
have I come on purpose or have I simply walked here by 
chance? Never mind, I said the day before yesterday that 
I would go and see him the day afier; well, and so I wiil! 
Besides I really cannot go further now.” 

He went up to Razumihin’s room on the fifth floor. 

The latter was at home in his garret, busily writing at the 
moment, and he opened the door himself. It was four 
months since they had seen each other. Razumihin was sit- 
ting in a ragged dressing-gown, with slippers on his bare 
feet, unkempt, unshaven and unwashed. His face showed 

“Is it you?” he cried. He looked his comrade up and 
down; then after a brief pause, he whistled. “As hard up 
as all that! Why, brother, you’ve cut me out!” he added, 
looking at Raskolnikov’s rags. “Come sit down, you are 
tired, I’ll be bound.” 

And when he had sunk down on the American leather sofa, 
which was in even worse condition than his own, Razumihin 
saw at once that his visitor was ill. 

“Why, you are seriously ill, do you know that?” He began 
feeling his pulse. Raskolnikov pulled away his hand. 

“Never mind,” he said, “I have come for this: I have no 
lessons. ...I1 wanted... but I don’t really want les- 
Sons. bicT 

“But I say! You are delirious, you know!” Razumihin 
observed, watching him carefully. 

“No, I am not.” | 

Raskolnikov got up from the sofa. As he had mounted the 
stairs to Razumihin’s, he had not realised that he would be 


meeting his friend face to face. Now, in a flash, he knew, 
that what he was least of all disposed for at that moment 
was to be face to face with any one in the wide world. His 
spleen rose within him. He almost choked with rage at him- 
self as soon as he crossed Razumihin’s threshold. 

“Good-bye,” he said abruptly, and walked to the door. 

“Stop, stop! You queer fish.” 

“T don’t want to,” said the other, again pulling away his 

“Then why the devil have you come? Are you mad, or 
what? Why, this is... almost insulting! I won’t let you 
go like that.” 

“Well, then, I came to you because I know no one but you 
who could help begin... because you are kinder 
than any one—cleverer, I mean, and can judge . .. and now 
I see that I want nothing. Do you hear? Nothing at all 
.-.ho one’s services one’s sympathy. I am by 
myself ... alone. Come, that’s enough. Leave me alone.” 

“Stay a minute, you sweep! You are a perfect madman. 
As you like for all I care. I have no lessons, do you see, 
and I don’t care about that, but there’s a bookseller, Heru- 
vimov—and he takes the place of a lesson. I would not 
exchange him for five lessons. He’s doing publishing of a 
kind, and issuing natural science manuals and what a circula- 
tion they have! The very titles are worth the money! You 
always maintained that I was a fool, but by Jove, my boy, 
there are greater fools than I am! Now he is setting up for 
being advanced, not that he has an inkling of anything, but, 
of course, I encourage him. Here are two signatures of the 
German text—in my opinion, the crudest charlatanism; it 
discusses the question. ‘Is woman a human being?’ And, of 
course, triumphantly proves that she is. Heruvimov is going 
to bring out this work as a contribution to the woman ques- 
tion; I am translating it; he will expand these two and a 
half signatures into six, we shall make up a gorgeous title 
half a page long and bring it out at half a rouble. It will do! 
He pays me six roubles the signature, it works out to about 
fifteen toubles for the job, and I’ve had six already in ad- 
vance. When we have finished this, we are going to begin a 
translation about whales, and then some of the dullest scan- 


dals out of the second part of Les Confessions we have 
marked for translation; somebody has told Hertuvimovy, that 
Rousseau was a kind of Radishchev. You may be sure I 
don’t contradict him, hang him! Well, would you like to do 
the second signature of ‘Js woman a human being?’ If you 
would, take the German and pens and paper—all those are 
provided, and take three roubles; for as I have had six 
roubles in advance on the whole thing, three roubles come to 
you for your share. And when you have finished the signa- 
ture there will be another three roubles for you. And please 
don’t think I am doing you a service; quite the contrary, as 
soon as you came in, I saw how you could help me; to begin 
with, I am weak in spelling, and secondly, I am sometimes 
utterly adrift in German, so that I make it up as I go along 
for the most part. The only comfort is, that it’s bound to be 
a change for the better. Though who can tell, maybe it’s 
sometimes for the worse. Will you take it?” 

Raskolnikov took the German sheets in silence, took the 
three roubles and without a word went out. Razumihin 
gazed after him in astonishment. But when Raskolnikov 
was in the next street, he turned back, mounted the stairs 
to Razumihin’s again and laying on the table the German 
article and the three roubles, went out again, still without 
uttering a word. 

“Are you raving, or what?” Razumihin shouted, roused 
to fury at last. “What farce is this? You'll drive me 
crazy too... what did you come to see me for, damn 

“IT don’t want... translation,” muttered Raskolnikov 
from the stairs. 

“Then what the devil do you want?’ shouted Razumihin 
from above. Raskolnikov continued descending the stair- 
case in silence. 

“Hey, there! Where are you living?” 

No answer. 

“Well, confound you then 

But Raskolnikov was already stepping into the street. 
On the Nikolaevsky Bridge he was roused to full conscious- 
ness again by an unpleasant incident. A coachman, after 
shouting at him two or three times, gave him a violent 



lash on the back with his whip, for having almost fallen 
under his horses’ hoofs. The lash so infuriated him that 
he dashed away to the railing (for some unknown reason 
he had been walking in the very middle of the bridge in 
the traffic). He angrily clenched and ground his teeth. He 
heard laughter, of course. 

“Serve him right!’ 

“A pickpocket I dare say.” 

“Pretending to be drunk, for sure, and getting under the 
wheels on purpose; and you have to answer for him.” 

“It’s a regular profession, that’s what it is.” 

But while he stood at the railing, still looking angry and 
bewildered after the retreating carriage, and rubbing his 
back, he suddenly felt some one thrust money into his hand. 
He looked. It was an elderly woman in a kerchief and 
goatskin shoes, with a girl, probably her daughter wearing 
a hat, and carrying a green parasol. 

“Take it, my good man, in Christ’s name.” 

He took it and they passed on. It was a piece of twenty 
copecks. From his dress and appearance they might well 
have taken him for a beggar asking alms in the streets, 
and the gift of the twenty copecks he doubtless owed to the 
blow, which made them feel sorry for him. 

He closed his hand on the twenty copecks, walked on for 
ten paces, and turned facing the Neva, looking towards 
the palace. The sky was without a cloud and the water 
was almost bright blue, which is so rare in the Neva. The 
cupola of the cathedral, which is seen at its best from the 
bridge about twenty paces from the chapel, glittered in 
the sunlight, and in the pure air every ornament on it 
could be clearly distinguished. The pain from the lash 
went off, and Raskolnikov forgot about it; one uneasy and 
not quite definite idea occupied him now completely. He 
stood still, and gazed long and intently into the distance; 
this spot was especially familiar to him. When he was 
attending the university, he had hundreds of times—generally 
on his way home—stood still on this spot, gazed at this 
truly magnificent spectacle and almost always marvelled 
at a vague and mysterious emotion it roused in him. It 
left him strangely cold; this gorgeous picture was for him 


blank and lifeless. He wondered every time at his sombre 
and enigmatic impression and, mistrusting himself, put off 
finding the explanation of it. He vividly recalled those old 
doubts and perplexities, and it seemed to him that it was 
no mere chance that he recalled them now. It struck him 
as strange and grotesque, that he should have stopped at 
the same spot as before, as though he actually imagined he 
could think the same thoughts, be interested in the same 
theories and pictures that had interested him... so short 
a time ago. He felt it almost. amusing, and yet it wrung 
his heart. Deep down, hidden far away out of sight all 
that seemed to him now—all his old past, his old thoughts, 
his old problems and theories, his old impressions and that 
picture and himself and all, all. ... He felt as though he 
were flying upwards, and everything were vanishing from 
his sight. Making an unconscious movement with his hand, 
he suddenly became aware of the piece of money in his 
fist. He opened his hand, stared at the coin, and with a 
sweep of his arm flung it into the water; then he turned 
and went home. It seemed to him, he had cut himself off 
from every one and from everything at that moment. 

Evening was coming on when he reached home, so that 
he must have been walking about six hours. How and 
where he came back he did not remember. Undressing, and 
quivering like an over-driven horse, he lay down on the 
sofa, drew his greatcoat over him, and at once sank into 
oblivion. .... 

It was dusk when he was waked up by a fearful scream. 
Good God, what a scream! Such unnatural sounds, such 
howling, wailing, grinding, tears, blows and curses he had 
never heard. 

He could never have imagined such brutality, such frenzy. 
In terror he sat up in bed, almost swooning with agony. 
But the fighting, wailing and cursing grew louder and 
louder. And then to his intense amazement he caught the 
voice of his landlady. She was howling, shrieking and 
wailing, rapidly, hurriedly, incoherently, so that he could 
not make out what she was talking about; she was beseech- 
ing, no doubt, not to be beaten, for she was being mercilessly 
beaten on the stairs. The voice of her assailant was so 


horrible from spite and rage that it was almost a croak; 
but he, too, was saying something, and just as quickly and 
indistinctly, hurrying and _ spluttering. All at once 
Raskolnikov trembled; he recognised the voice—it was the 
voice of Ilya Petrovitch. Ilya Petrovitch here and beating 
the landlady! He is kicking her, banging her head against 
the steps—that’s clear, that can be told from the sounds, 
from the cries and the thuds. How is it, is the world topsy- 
turvy? He could hear people running in crowds from all 
the storeys and all the staircases; he heard voices, exclama- 
tions, knocking, doors banging. “But why, why, and how 
could it be?” he repeated, thinking seriously that he had 
gone mad. But no, he heard too distinctly! And they 
would come to him then next, “for no doubt... it’s all 
about that... about yesterday....Good God!” He 
would have. fastened his door with the latch, but he could 
not lift his hand . .. besides, it would be useless. Terror 
gripped his heart like ice, tortured him and numbed 
him. . . . But at last all this uproar, after continuing about 
ten minutes, began gradually to subside. The landlady was 
moaning and groaning; Ilya Petrovitch was still uttering 
threats and curses. ... But at last he, too, seemed to be 
silent, and now he could not be heard. “Can he have gone 
away? Good Lord!” Yes, and now the landlady is going 
too, still weeping and moaning ... and then her door 
slammed. .. . Now the crowd was going from the stairs 
to their rooms, exclaiming, disputing, calling to one another, 
raising their voices to a shout, dropping them to a whisper. 
There must have been numbers of them—almost all the 
inmates of the block. “But, good God, how could it be! 
And why, why had he come here!” 

Raskolnikov sank worn out on the sofa, but could not 
close his eyes. He lay for half an hour in such anguish, 
such an intolerable sensation of infinite terror as he had 
never experienced before. Suddenly a bright light flashed 
into his room. Nastasya came in with a candle and a 
plate of soup. Looking at him carefully and ascertaining 
that he was not asleep, she set the candle on the table and 
began to lay out what she had brought—bread, salt, a plate, 
a spoon. 


“You've eaten nothing since yesterday, I warrant. 
You've been trudging about all day, and you’re shaking 
with fever.” 

“Nastasya ... what were they beating the landlady 

She looked intently at him. 

“Who beat the landlady ?” 

“Just now... half an hour ago, Ilya Petrovitch, the 
assistant-superintendent, on the stairs.... Why was he 
ill-treating her like that, and . . . why was he here?” 

Nastasya scrutinised him, silent and frowning, and her 
scrutiny lasted a long time. He felt uneasy, even frightened 
at her searching eyes. 

“Nastasya, why don’t you speak?” he said timidly at last 
in a weak voice. 

“It’s the blood,’ she answered at last softly, as though 
speaking to herself. 

“Blood? What blood?” he muttered, growing white and 
turning towards the wall. 

Nastasya still looked at him without speaking. 

“Nobody has been beating the landlady,” she declared at 
last in a firm, resolute voice. 

He gazed at her, hardly able to breathe. 

“T heard it myself....t1 was not asleep...I was 
sitting up,’ he said still more timidly. “I listened a long 
while. The assistant-superintendent came. ... Every one 
ran out on to the stairs from all the flats.” 

“No one has been here. That’s the blood crying in your 
ears. When there’s no outlet for it and it gets clotted, you 
begin fancying things... Will you eat something?” 

He made no answer. Nastasya still stood over him, 
watching him. 

“Give me something to drink . .. Nastasya.” 

She went downstairs and returned with a white earthen- 
ware jug of water. He remembered only swallowing one 
sip of the cold water and spilling some on his neck. Then 
followed forgetfulness. 


| E was not completely unconscious, however, all the 

time he was ill; he was in a feverish state, some- 
times delirious, sometimes half conscious. He re- 
membered a great deal afterwards. Sometimes it seemed 
as though there were a number of people round him; they 
wanted to take him away somewhere, there was a great deal 
of squabbling and discussing about him. Then he would 
be alone in the room; they had all gone away afraid of 
him, and only now and then opened the door a crack to 
look at him; they threatened him, plotted something to- 
gether, laughed, and mocked at him. He remembered 
Nastasya often at his bedside; he distinguished another 
person, too, whom he seemed to know very well, though he 
could not remember who he was, and this fretted him, even 
made him cry. Sometimes he fancied he had been lying 
there a month; at other times it all seemed part of the same 
day. But of that—of that he had no recollection, and yet 
every minute he felt that he had forgotten something he 
ought to remember. He worried and tormented himself try- 
ing to remember, moaned, flew into a rage, or sank into 
awful, intolerable terror. Then he struggled to get up, 
would have run away, but some one always prevented him 
by force, and he sank back into impotence and forgetfulness. 
At last he returned to complete consciousness. 
it happened at ten o’clock in the morning. On fine days 
the sun shone into the room at that hour, throwing a streak 
of light on the right wall and the_corner near the door. 
Nastasya was standing beside him with another person, a 
complete stranger, who was looking at him very inquisitively. 
He was a young man with a beard, wearing a full, short- 
waisted coat, and looked like a messenger. The landlady 
was peeping in at the half-opened door. Raskolnikov sat up. 
“Who is this, Nastasya?” he asked, pointing to the young 




“T say, he’s himself again!” she said. 

“He is himself,” echoed the man. 

Concluding that he had returned to his senses, the land- 
lady closed the door and disappeared. She was always shy 
and dreaded conversations or discussions. She was a woman 
of forty, not at all bad-looking, fat and buxom, with black 
eyes and eyebrows, good-natured from fatness and laziness, 
and absurdly bashful. 

“Who... are you?” he went on, addressing the man. 
But at that moment the door was flung open, and, stooping 
a little, as he was so tall, Razumihin came in. 

“What a cabin it is!” he cried. “I am always knocking 
my head. You call this a lodging! So you are conscious, 
brother? I’ve just heard the news from Pashenka.” 

“He has just come to,’ said Nastasya. 

“Just come to,” echoed the man again, with a smile. 

“And who are your?” Razumihin asked, suddenly ad- 
dressing him. “My name is Vrazumihin, at your service; 
not Razumihin, as I am always called, but Vrazumihin, a 
student and gentleman; and he is my friend. And who are 
you ?”’ 

“T am the messenger from our office, from the merchant 
Shelopev, and I’ve come on business.” 

“Please sit down.” Razumihin seated himself on the other 
side of the table. “It’s a good thing you’ve come to, brother,” 
he went on to Raskolnikov. “For the last four days you 
have scarcely eaten or drunk anything. We had to give 
you tea in spoonfuls. I brought Zossimov to see you twice. 
You remember Zossimov? He examined you carefully and 
said at once it was nothing serious—something seemed to 
have gone to your head. Some nervous nonsense, the result 
of bad feeding, he says you have not had enough beer and 
radish, but it’s nothing much, it will pass and you will be all 
right. Zossimov is a first-rate fellow! He is making quite 
a name. Come, I won’t keep you,” he said, addressing the 
man again. “Will you explain what you want? You must 
know, Rodya, this is the second time they have sent from 
the office; but it was another man last time, and I talked to 
him. Who was it came before?” 

“That was the day before yesterday, I venture to say, if 


you please, sir. That was Alexey Semyonovitch; he is 
in our office, too.” 

“He was more intelligent than you, don’t you think so?” 

“Ves, indeed, sir, he is of more weight than I am.” 

“Quite so; go on.” 

“At your mamma’s request, through Afanasy Ivanovitch 
Vahrushin, of whom I presume you have heard more than 
once, a remittance is sent to you from our office,” the man 
began, addressing Raskolnikov. “If you are in an intelli- 
gible condition, I’ve thirty-five roubles to remit to you, as 
Semyon Semyonovitch has received from Afanasy Ivano- 
vitch at your mamma’s request instructions to that effect, 
as on previous occasions. Do you know him, sir?” 

“Yes, I remember .... Vahrushin,’ Raskolnikov said 

“You hear, he knows Vahrushin,” cried Razumihin. “He 
is in ‘an intelligible condition’! And I see you are an in- 
telligent man too. Well, it’s always pleasant to hear words 
of wisdom.” 

“That’s the gentleman, Vahrushin, Afanasy Ivanovitch, 
And at the request of your mamma, who has sent you a 
remittance once before in the same manner through him, 
he did not refuse this time also, and sent instructions to 
Semyon Semyonovitch some days since to hand you thirty- 
five roubles in the hope of better to come.” 

“That ‘hoping for better to come’ is the best thing you’ve 
said, though “your mamma’ is not bad either. Come then, 
what do you say? Is he fully conscious, eh?” 

“That’s all right. If only he can sign this little paper.” 

“He can scrawl his name. Have you got the book?’ 

“Yes, here’s the book.” 

“Give it to me. Here, Rodya, sit up. I’ll hold you. Take 
the pen and scribble ‘Raskolnikov’ for him. For just now, 
brother, money is sweeter to us than treacle.” 

“I don’t want it,” said Raskolnikov, pushing away the 

“Not want it?” 

“T won’t sign it.” 

“How the devil can you do without signing it?” 

“T don’t want... the money.” 


“Don’t want the money! Come, brother, that’s nonsense, 
I bear witness. Don’t trouble, please, it’s only that he is on 
his travels again. But that’s pretty common with him at all 
times though.... You are a man of judgment and we 
will take him in hand, that is, more simply, take his hand and 
he will sign it. Here.” 

“But I can come another time.” 

“No, no. Why should we trouble you? You are a man of 
judgment. ... Now, Rodya, don’t keep your visitor, you 
see he is waiting,” and he made ready to hold Raskolnikov’s 
hand in earnest. 

“Stop, P’ll do it alone,” said the latter, taking the pen and 
signing his name. 

The messenger took out the money and went away. 

“Bravo! And now, brother, are you hungry?” 

“Ves,” answered Raskolnikov. 

“Ts there any soup?” 

“Some of yesterday’s,’ answered Nastasya, who was still 
standing there. 

“With potatoes and rice in it?” 


“T know it by heart. Bring soup and give us some tea.’ 

“Very well.” 

Raskolnikov looked at all this with profound astonish- 
ment and a dull, unreasoning terror. He made up his mind 
to keep quiet and see what would happen. “I believe I am 
not wandering. I believe it’s reality,” he thought. 

In a couple of minutes Nastasya returned with the soup, 
and announced that the tea would be ready directly. With 
the soup she brought two spoons, two plates, salt, pepper, 
mustard for the beef, and so on. The table was set as it 
had not been for a long time. The cloth was clean. 

“Tt would not be amiss, Nastasya, if Praskovya Pavlovna 
were to send us up a couple of bottles of beer. We could 
empty them.” 

“Well, you are a cool hand,’ muttered Nastasya, and she 
departed to carry out his orders. 

Raskolnikov still gazed wildly with strained attention. 
Meanwhile Razumihin sat down on the sofa beside him, as 
clumsily as a bear put his left arm round Raskolnikov’s head, 



although he was able to sit up, and with his right hand gave 
him a spoonful of soup, blowing on it that it might not burn 
him. But the soup was only just warm. Raskolnikov swal- 
lowed one spoonful greedily, then a second, then a third. 
But after giving him a few more spoonfuls of soup, Razumi- 
hin suddenly stopped, and said that he must ask Zossimov 
whether he ought to have more. 

Nastasya came in with two bottles of beer. 

“And will you have tea?” 


“Cut along, Nastasya, and bring some tea, for tea we may 
venture on without the faculty. But here is the beer!” He 
moved back to his chair, pulled the soup and meat in front of 
him, and began eating as though he had not touched food for 
three days. 

“I must tell you, Rodya, I dine like this here every day 
now,” he mumbled with his mouth full of beef, “and it’s all 
Pashenka, your dear little landlady, who sees to that; she 
loves to do anything for me. I don’t ask for it, but, of course, 
I don’t object. And here’s Nastasya with the tea. She is 
a quick girl. Nastasya, my dear, won’t you have some 
beer ?” 

“Get along with your nonsense!” 

“A cup of tea, then?” 

“A cup of tea, maybe.” 

“Pour it out. Stay, Pl pour it out myself. Sit down.” 

He poured out two cups, left his dinner, and sat on the 
sofa again. As before, he put his left arm round the sick 
man’s head, raised him up and gave him tea in spoonfuls, 
again blowing each spoonful steadily and earnestly, as though 
this process was the principal and most effective means 
towards his friend’s recovery. Raskolnikov said nothing and 
made no resistance, though he felt quite strong enough to 
sit upon the sofa without support and could not merely have 
held a cup or a spoon, but even perhaps could have walked 
about. But from some queer, almost animal, cunning he con- 
ceived the idea of hiding his strength and lying low for a 
time, pretending if necessary not to be yet in full possession 
of his faculties, and meanwhile listening to find out what was 
going on. Yet he could not overcome his sense of repug- 


nance. After sipping a dozen spoonfuls of tea, he suddenly 
released his head, pushed the spoon away capriciously, and 
sank back on the pillow. There were actually real pillows 
under his head now, down pillows in clean cases, he observed 
that, too, and took note of it. 

“Pashenka must give us some raspberry jam to-day to 
make him some raspberry tea,” said Razumihin, going back 
to his chair and attacking his soup and beer again. 

“And where is she to get raspberries for you?” asked 
Nastasya, balancing a saucer on her five outspread fingers 
and sipping tea through a lump of sugar. 

“She'll get it at the shop, my dear. You see, Rodya, all 
sorts of things have been happening while you have been 
laid up. When you decamped in that rascally way without 
leaving your address, I felt so angry that I resolved to find 
you out and punish you. I set to work that very day. How 
I ran about making inquiries for you! This lodging of yours 
I had forgotten, though I never remembered it, indeed, be- 
cause I did not know it; and as for your old lodgings, I 
could only remember it was at the Five Corners, Harlamov’s 
house. I kept trying to find that Harlamov’s house, and 
afterwards it turned out that it was not Harlamov’s, but 
Buch’s. How one muddles up sounds sometimes! So I lost 
my temper, and I went on the chance to the address bureau 
next day, and only fancy, in two minutes they looked you up! 
Your name is down there.” 

“My name!” 

“T should think so; and yet a General Kobelev they could 
not find while I was there. Well, it’s a long story. But as 
soon as I did land on this place, I soon got to know all your 
affairs—all, all, brother, I know everything; Nastasya here 
will tell you. I made the acquaintance of Nikodim Fomitch 
and Ilya Petrovich and the house-porter and Mr. Zametov, 
Alexander Grigorievitch, the head clerk in the police office, 
and, last but not least, of Pashenka; Nastasya here 
knows. ...” : 

“He’s got round her,” Nastasya murmured, smiling shyly. 

“Why don’t you put the sugar in your tea, Nastasya 

“You are a oner!” Nastasya cried suddenly, going off into 


a giggle. “I am not Nikiforovna, but Petrovna,” she added 
suddenly, recovering from her mirth. 

“T’ll make a note of it. Well, brother, to make a long story 
short, I was going in for a regular explosion here to uproot 
all malignant influences in the locality, but Pashenka won 
the day. I had not expected, brother, to find her so... 
prepossessing. Eh, what do you think?” 

Raskolnikov did not speak, but he still kept his eyes fixed 
upon him, full of alarm. 

“And all that could be wished, indeed, in every respect,” 
Razumihin went on, not at all embarrassed by his silence. 

“Ah, the sly dog!” Nastasya shrieked again. This con- 
versation afforded her unspeakable delight. 

“It’s a pity, brother, that you did not set to work in the 
right way at first. You ought to have approached her differ- 
ently. She is, so to speak, a most unaccountable character. 
But we will talk about her character later. .. . How could 
you let things come to such a pass that she gave up sending 
you your dinner? And that 1.0. u.P You must have been , 
mad to sign an 1.0. u. And that promise of marriage when 
her daughter, Natalya Yegorovna, was alive? ...I1 know 
all about it! But I see that’s a delicate matter and I am an 
ass; forgive me. But, talking of foolishness, do you know 
Praskovya Pavlovna is not nearly so foolish as you would 
think at first sight?” 

“No,” mumbled Raskolnikov, looking away, but feeling that 
it was better to keep up the conversation. 

“She isn’t, is she?” cried Razumihin, delighted to get an 
answer out of him. “But she is not very clever either, eh? 
She is essentially, essentially an unaccountable character! I 
am sometimes quite at a loss, I assure you. . . . She must be 
forty; she says she is thirty-six, and of course she has every 
right to say so. But I swear I judge her intellectually, simply 
from the metaphysical point of view; there is a sort of sym- 
bolism sprung up between us, a sort of algebra or what not! 
I don’t understand it! Well, that’s all nonsense. Only, see- 
ing that you are not a student now and have lost your lessons 
and your clothes, and that through the young lady’s death she 
has no need to treat you as a relation, she suddenly took 
fright; and as you hid in your den and dropped all your old 


relations with her, she planned to get rid of you. And she’s 
been cherishing that design a long time, but was sorry to 
lose the 1. 0. u., for you assured her yourself that your 
mother would pay.” 

“It was base of me to say that. . . . My mother herself is 
almost a beggar .. . and I told a lie to keep my lodging ... 
and be fed,” Raskolnikov said loudly and distinctly. 

“Yes, you did very sensibly. But the worst of it is that 
at that point Mr. Tchebarov turns up, a business man. 
Pashenka would never have thought of doing anything on her 
own account, she is too retiring; but the business man is 
by no means retiring, and first thing he puts the question, 
‘Is there any hope of realising the 1. 0. u.?? Answer: there 
is, because he has a mother who would save her Rodya with 
her hundred and twenty-five roubles pension, if she has to 
starve herself; and a sister, too, who would go into bondage 
for his sake. That’s what he was building upon. ... Why 
do you start? I know all the ins and outs of your affairs 
now, my dear boy—it’s not for nothing that you were so 
open with Pashenka when you were her prospective son-in- 
_ law, and I say all this as a friend... . But I tell you what 
it is: an honest and sensitive man is open; and a business 
man ‘listens and goes on eating’ you up. Well, then she 
gave the 1. 0. u. by way of payment to this Tchebarov, and 
without hesitation he made a formal demand for payment. 
When I heard of all this I wanted to blow him up, too, to 
clear my conscience, but by that time harmony reigned 
between me and Pashenka, and I insisted on stopping the 
whole affair, engaging that you would pay. I went security 
for you, brother, Do you understand? We called Tchebarov, 
flung him ten roubles and got the 1. 0. u. back from him, 
and here I have the honour of presenting it to you. She 
trusts your word now. Here, take it, you see I have 
torn it.” 

Razumihin put the note on the table. Raskolnikov looked 
at him and turned to the wall without uttering a word. 
Even Razumihin felt a twinge. 

“T see, brother,” he said a moment later, “that I have been 
playing the fool again. I thought I should amuse you with 
my chatter, and I believe I have only made you cross.” 


“Was it you I did not recognise when I was delirious?” 
Raskolnikov asked, after a moment’s pause without turning 
his head. 

“Yes, and you flew into a rage about it, especially when I 
brought Zametov one day.” 

“Zametov? The head clerk? What for?” Raskolnikov 
turned round quickly and fixed his eyes on Razumihin. 

“What's the matter with you? ... What are you upset 
about? He wanted to make your acquaintance because I 
talked to him a lot about you. . . . How could I have found 
out so much except from him? He is a capital fellow, 
brother, first-rate . . . in his own way, of course. Now we 
are friends—see each other almost every day. I have moved 
into this part, you know. I have only just moved. I’ve been 
with him to Luise Ivanovna once or twice. Do you remem- 
ber Luise, Luise Ivanovna?” 

“Did I say anything in delirium ?” 

“T should think so! You were beside yourself.” 

“What did I rave about?” 

“What next? What did you rave about? What people 
do rave about. ... Well, brother, now I must not lose 
time. To work.” He got up from the table and took up his 

“What did I rave about?” 

“How he keeps on! Are you afraid of having let out some 
secret? Don’t worry yourself; you said nothing about a 
countess. But you said a lot about a bulldog, and about ear- 
rings and chains, and about Krestovsky Island, and some 
porter, and Nikodim Fomitch and Ilya Petrovitch, the assist- 
ant superintendent. And another thing that was of special 
interest to you was your own sock. You whined, ‘Give me 
my sock.’ Zametov hunted all about your room for your 
socks, and with his own scented, ring-bedecked fingers he 
gave you the rag. And only then were you comforted, and 
for the next twenty-four hours you held the wretched thing 
in your hand; we could not get it from you. It is most likely 
somewhere under your quilt at this moment. And then you 
asked so piteously for fringe for your trousers. We tried 
to find out what sort of fringe, but we could not make it out. 
Now to business! Here are thirty-five roubles; I take ten 


of them, and shall give you an account of them in an hour 
or two. I will let Zossimov know at the same time, though 
he ought to have been here long ago, for it is nearly twelve. 
And you, Nastasya, look in pretty often while I am away, to 
see whether he wants a drink or anything else. And I will 
tell Pashenka what is wanted myself. Good-bye!” 

“He calls her Pashenka! Ah, he’s a deep one!” said 
Nastasya as he went out; then she opened the door and stood 
listening, but could not resist running downstairs after 

She was very eager to hear what he would say to the land- 
lady. She was evidently quite fascinated by Razumihin. 

No sooner had she left the room than the sick man flung 
off the bedclothes and leapt out of bed like a madman. With 
burning, twitching impatience he had waited for them to be 
gone so that he might set to work. But to what work? 
Now, as though to spite him, it eluded him. , 

“Good God, only tell me one thing: do they know of it yet 
or not? What if they know it and are only pretending, 
mocking me while I-am laid up, and then they will come in 
_and tell me that it’s been discovered long ago and that they 
have only ... What amItodonow? That’s what I’ve for- 
gotten, as though on purpose; forgotten it all at once, I re- 
membered a minute ago.” 

He stood in the middle of the room and gazed in miserable 
bewilderment about him; he walked to the door, opened it, 
listened; but that was not what he wanted. Suddenly, as 
though recalling something, he rushed to the corner where 
there was a hole under the paper, began examining it, put his 
hand into the hole, fumbled—but that was not it. He went 
to the stove, opened it and began rummaging in the ashes; 
the frayed edges of his trousers and the rags cut off his 
pocket were lying there just as he had thrown them. No 
one had looked, then! Then he remembered the sock about 
which Razumihin had just been telling him. Yes, there it 
lay on the sofa under the quilt, but it was so covered with 
dust and grime that Zametov could not have seen anything 
on it. 

“Bah, Zametov! The police office! And why am I sent 
for to the police office? Where’s the notice? Bah! I am 



mixing it up: that was then. I looked at my sock then, too, 
but now... now I have been ill. But what did Zametov 
come for? Why did Razumihin bring him?” he muttered, 
helplessly sitting on the sofa again. “What does it mean? 
Am I still in delirium, or is it real? I believe it is real.... 
Ah, I remember ; I must escape! Make haste to escape. Yes, 
I must, I must escape! Yes... but where? And where 
are my clothes? I’ve no boots. They’ve taken them away! 
They’ve hidden them! I understand! Ah, here is my coat— 
they passed that over! And here is money on the table, 
thank God! And here’s the 1.0. vu. ... I'll take the money 
and go and take another lodging. They won’t find me!... 
Yes, but the address bureau? They'll find me, Razumihin 
will find me. Better escape altogether ... far away... 
to America, and let them do their worst! And take the 
I. 0. U.... it would be of use there. . . . What else shall I 
take? They think I am ill! They don’t know that I can 
walk, ha-ha-ha! I could see by their eyes that they know 
all about it! If only I could get downstairs! And what if 
they have set a watch there—policemen! What’s this, tea? 
Ah, and here is beer left, half a bottle, cold!” 

He snatched up the bottle, which still contained a glassful 
of beer, and gulped it down with relish, as though quenching 
a flame in his breast. But in another minute the beer had 
gone to his head, and a faint and even pleasant shiver ran 
down his spine. He lay down and pulled the quilt over him. 
His sick and incoherent thoughts grew more and more dis- 
connected, and soon a light, pleasant drowsiness came upon 
him. With a sense of comfort he nestled his head into the 
pillow, wrapped more closely about him the soft, wadded quilt 
which had replaced the old, ragged great-coat, sighed softly 
and sank into a deep, sound, refreshing sleep. 

He woke up, hearing some one come in. He opened his 
eyes and saw Razumihin standing in the doorway, uncertain 
whether to come in or not. Raskolnikov sat up quickly on 
the sofa and gazed at him, as though trying to recall some- 

“Ah, you are not asleep! Here Iam! Nastasya, bring in 
the parcel!’ Razumihin shouted down the stairs. “You shall 
have the account directly.” 


“What time is it?” asked Raskolnikov, aga round 

“Yes, you had a fine sleep, brother, it’s almost evening, it 
will be six o’clock directly. You have slept more than six 

“Good heavens! Have I?” 

“And why not? It will do you good. What’s the hurry? 
A tryst, is it? We've all time before us. I’ve been waiting 
for the last three hours for you; I’ve been up twice and. 
found you asleep. I’ve called on Zossimov twice: not at 
home, only fancy! But no matter, he will turn up. ‘And 
I’ve been out on my own business, too. You know I’ve been 
moving to-day, moving with my uncle. I have an uncle liv- 
ing with me now. But that’s no matter, to business. Give 
me the parcel, Nastasya. We will open it directly. And 
how do you feel now, brother ?” 

“T am quite well, I am not ill. Razumihin, have you been 
here long?” 

“I tell you I’ve been waiting for the last three hours.” 

“No, before.” 

“How do you mean?” 

“How long have you been coming here?” 

“Why, I told you all about it this morning. Don’t you 
remember ?” 

Raskolnikov pondered. The morning seemed like a dream 
to him. He could not remember alone, and looked inquiringly 
at Razumihin. 

“Hm!” said the latter, “he has forgotten. I fancied then 
that you were not quite yourself. Now you are better for 
your sleep. ... You really look much better. ‘First rate! 
Well, to business. Look here, my dear boy.” 

He began untying the bundle, which evidently interested 

“Believe me, brother, this is something specially near my 
heart. For we must make a man of you. Let’s begin from 
the top. Do you see this cap?” he said, taking out of the 
bundle a fairly good, though cheap, and ordinary cap. “Let 
me try it on.” 

“Presently, afterwards,” said Raskolnikov, waving it off 


“Come, Rodya, my boy, don’t oppose it, afterwards will be 
too late; and I shan’t sleep all night, for 1 bought it by guess, 
without measure. Just right!” he cried triumphantly, fitting 
it on, “just your size! A proper head-covering is the first 
thing in dress and a recommendation in its own way. Tol- 
styakov, a friend of mine, is always obliged to take off his 
pudding basin when he goes into any public place where 
other people wear their hats or caps. People think he does 
it from slavish politeness, but it’s simply because he is 
ashamed of his bird’s nest; he is such a bashful fellow! 
Look, Nastasya, here are two specimens of headgear: this 
Palmerston”—he took from the corner Raskolnikov’s old, 
battered hat, which for some unknown reason he called a 
Palmerston—‘“‘or this jewel! Guess the price, Rodya, what 
do you suppose I paid for it, Nastasya!” he said, turning to 
her, seeing that Raskolnikov did not speak. 

“Twenty copecks, no more, I dare say,” answered Nastasya. 

“Twenty copecks, silly!’ he cried, offended. “Why, now- 
adays you would cost more than that—eighty copecks! And 
that only because it has been worn. And it’s bought on con- 
dition that when it’s worn out, they will give you another 
next year. Yes, on my word! Well, now let us pass to the 
United States of America, as they called them at school. I 
assure you I am proud of these breeches,” and he exhibited 
to Raskolnikov a pair of light, summer trousers of grey 
woollen material. “No holes, no spots, and quite respectable, 
although a little worn; and a waistcoat to match, quite in the 
fashion. And it’s being worn really is an improvement, it’s 
softer, smoother. .. . You see, Rodya, to my thinking, the 
great thing for getting on in the world is always to keep to 
the seasons; if you don’t insist on having asparagus in 
January, you keep your money in your purse; and it’s the 
same with this purchase. It’s summer now, so I’ve been 
buying summer things—warmer materials will be wanted 
for autumn, so you will have to throw these away in any 
case ... especially as they will be done for by then from 
their own lack of coherence if not your higher standard of 
luxury. Come, price them! What do you say? Two roubles 
twenty-five copecks! And remember the condition: if you 
wear these out, you will have another suit for nothing! They 


only do business on that system at Fedyaev’s; if you’ve 
bought a thing once, you are satisfied for life, for you will 
never go there again of your own free will. Now for the 
boots. What do you say? You see that they are a bit worn, 
but they’ll last a couple of months, for it’s foreign work and 
foreign leather; the secretary of the English Embassy sold 
them last week—he had only worn them six days, but he 
was very short of cash. Price—a rouble and a half. A 
bargain ?” 

“But perhaps they won’t fit,” observed Nastasya. r 

“Not fit? Just look!” and he pulled out of his pocket 
Raskolnikov’s old, broken boot, stiffly coated with dry mud. 
“TI did not go empty-handed—they took the size from this 
monster. We all did our best. And as to your linen, your 
landlady has seen to that. Here, to begin with are three 
shirts, hempen but with a fashionable front. ... Well now 
then, eighty copecks the cap, two roubles twenty-five copecks 
the suit—together three roubles five copecks—a rouble and a 
half for the boots—for, you see, they are very good—and 
that makes four roubles fifty-five copecks; five roubles for 
the underclothes—they were bought in the lot—which makes 
exactly nine roubles fifty-five copecks. Forty-five copecks 
change in coppers. Will you take it? And so, Rodya, you 
are set up with a complete new rig-out, for your overcoat 
will serve, and even has a style of its own. That comes from 
getting one’s clothes from Sharmer’s! As for your socks 
and other things I leave them to you; we've twenty-five 
roubles left. And as for Pashenka and paying for your 
lodging, don’t you worry. I tell you she'll trust you for 
anything. And now, brother, let me change your linen, 
for I daresay you will throw off your illness with your 
shirt.” | 

“Let me be! I don’t want to!” Raskolnikov waved him 
off. He had listened with disgust to Razumihin’s efforts to 
be playful about his purchases. 

“Come, brother, don’t tell me I’ve been trudging around 
for nothing,” Razumihin insisted. ‘“Nastasya, don’t be bashful, 
but help me—that’s it,” and in spite of Raskolnikov’s re- 
sistance he changed his linen. The latter sank back on the 
pillows and for a minute or two said nothing. 


“It will be long before I get rid of them,” he thought. 
“What money was all that bought with?” he asked at last, 
gazing at the wall. 

“Money? Why, your own, what the messenger brought 
from Vahrushin, your mother sent it. Have you forgotter 
that, too?” 

“I remember now,” said Raskolnikov after a long, suller 
silence. Razumihin looked at him, frowning and uneasy. 

The door opened and a tall, stout man whose appearance 
seemed familiar to Raskolnikov came in. 

“Zossimov! At last!” cried Razumihin, delighted. 

fleas was a tall, fat man with a puffy, colourless, 

clean-shaven face and straight flaxen hair. He wore 
: spectacles, and a big gold ring on his fat finger. He ' 
was twenty-seven. He had on a light grey fashionable loose 
coat, light summer trousers, and everything about him loose, 
fashionable and spick and span; his linen was irreproach- 
able, his watch-chain was massive. In manner he was slow 
and, as it were, nonchalant, and at the same time studiously 
free and easy; he made efforts to conceal his self-importance, 
but it was apparent at every instant. All his acquaintances 
found him tedious, but said he was clever at his work. 

“T’ve been to you twice to-day, brother, you see, he’s come 
to himself,” cried Razumihin. 

“T see, I see; and how do we feel now, eh?” said Zossimov 
to Raskolnikov, watching him carefully and, sitting down at 
the foot of the sofa, he settled himself as comfortably as he 

“He is still depressed,” Razumihin went on. “We’ve just 
changed his linen and he almost cried.” 

“That’s very natural; you might have put it off if he did 
not wish it. ... His pulse is first-rate. Is your head still 
aching, eh?” 

“T am well, I am perfectly well!” Raskolnikov declared 
positively and irritably. He raised himself on the sofa and 
looked at them with glittering eyes, but sank back on to the 
pillow at once and turned to the wall. Zossimov watched 
him intently. 

“Very good. . . . Going on all right,” he said lazily. “Has 
he eaten anything ?” 

They told him, and asked what he might have. 

“He may have anything ... soup, tea... mushrooms 
and cucumbers, of course, you must not give him; he’d better 
not have meat either, and . . . but no need to tell you that!” 
Razumihin and he looked at each other. “No more medicine 



or anything. I’ll look at him again to-morrow. Perhaps, 
to-day even... but never mind...” 

“To-morrow evening I shall take him for a walk,” said 
Razumihin. “We are going to the Yusupov garden and then 
to the Palais de Crystal.” 

“T would not disturb him to-morrow at all, but I don’t 
know ... a little, maybe ... but we'll see.” 

“Ach, what a nuisance! I’ve got a house-warming party 
to-night; it’s only a step from here. Couldn’t he come? He 
could lie on the sofa. You are coming?” Razumihin said to 
Zossimov. “Don’t forget, you promised.” 

“All right, only rather later. What are you going to do?” 
“Oh, nothing—tea, vodka, herrings. There will be a pie 
. «+ just our friends.” 

“And who?” 

“All neighbours here, almost all new friends, except my old 
uncle, and he is new too—he only arrived in Petersburg yes- 
terday to see to some business of his. We meet once in five 

“What is he?” 

“He’s been stagnating all his life as a district postmaster; 
gets a little pension. He is sixty-five—not worth talking 
about. ... But I am fond of him, Porfiry Petrovitch, the 
head of the Investigation Department here... But you 
know him,” 

“Is he a relation of yours, too?” 

“A very distant one. But why are you scowling? Because 
you quarrelled once, won’t you come then?” 

“T don’t care a damn for him!” 

“So much the better. Well, there will be some students, a 
teacher, a government clerk, a musician, an officer and - 

“Do tell me, please, what you or he’—Zossimov nodded at 
Raskolnikov—-“can have in common with this Zametov?” 

“Oh, you particular gentleman! Principles! You are 
worked by principles, as it were by springs: you won’t ven- 
ture to turn round on your own account. If a man is a nice 
fellow, that’s the only principle I go upon. Zametov is a 
delightful person.” 

“Though he does take bribes.” 


“Well, he does! and what of it? I don’t care if he does 
take bribes,’ Razumihin cried with unnatural irritability. “I 
don’t praise him for taking bribes. I only say he is a nice 
man in his own way! But if one looks at men in all ways— 
are there many good ones left? Why, I am sure I shouldn’t 
be worth a baked onion myself... perhaps with you 
thrown in.” 

“That’s too little; I’d give two for you.” 

“And I wouldn’t give more than one for you. No more of 
your jokes. Zametov-is no more than a boy, I can pull his 
hair and one must draw him and not repel him. You'll never 
improve a man by repelling him, especially a boy. One has 
to be twice as careful with a boy. Oh, you progressive dul- 
lards! You don’t understand. You harm yourselves running 
another man down. .. . But if you want to know, we really 
have something in common.” 

“I should like to know what.” 

“Why, it’s all about a house-painter. . . . We are getting 
him out of a mess! Though indeed there’s nothing to fear 
now. The matter is absolutely self-evident. We only put on 

“A painter?” 

“Why, haven’t I told you about it? I only told you the 
beginning then about the murder of the old pawnbroker- 
woman, Well, the painter is mixed up in it.. .” 

“Oh, I heard about that murder before and was rather 
interested in it... partly ... for one reason...I read 
about it in the papers, too... .” 

“Lizaveta was murdered, too,’ Nastasya blurted out, sud- 
denly addressing Raskolnikov. She remained in the room all 
the time, standing by the door listening. 

“Lizaveta,’ murmured Raskolnikov hardly audibly. 

“Lizaveta, who sold old clothes. Didn’t you know her? 
She used to come here. She mended a shirt for you, 

Raskolnikov turned to the wall where in the dirty, yellow 
paper he picked out one clumsy, white flower with brown 
lines on it and began examining how many petals there were 
in it, how many scallops in the petals and how many lines on 
them. He felt his arms and legs as lifeless as though they 


had been cut off. He did not attempt to move, but stared 
obstinately at the flower. 

“But what about the painter?’ Zossimov interrupted 
Nastasya’s chatter with marked displeasure. She sighed and 
was silent. 

“Why, he was accused of the murder,” Razumihin went on 

“Was there evidence against him then?” 

“Evidence, indeed! Evidence that was no evidence, and 
that’s what we had to prove. It was just as they pitched on 
those fellows, Koch and Pestryakov, at first. Foo! how 
stupidly it’s all done, it makes one sick, though it’s not 
one’s business! Pestryakov may be coming to-night... . 
By the way, Rodya, you’ve heard about the business al- 
ready; it happened before you were ill, the day before 
you fainted at the police office while they were talking 
about it.” 

Zossimov looked curiously at Raskolnikov. He did not 

“But I say, Razumihin, I wonder at you. What a busy- 
body you are!’ Zossimov observed. 

“Maybe I am, but we will get him off anyway,” shouted 
Razumihin, bringing his fist down on the table. ‘What’s 
the most offensive is not their lying—one can always forgive 
lying—lying is a delightful thing, for it leads to truth—what 
is offensive is that they lie and worship their own lying. ... 
I respect Porfiry, but ... What threw them out at first? 
The door was locked, and when they came back with the 
porter it was open. So it followed that Koch and Pestryakov 
were the murderers—that was their logic!” 

“But don’t excite yourself; they simply detained them, they 
could not help that. . . . And, by the way, I’ve met that man 
Koch. “He used to buy unredeemed pledges from the old 
woman? Eh?” 

“Yes, he is a swindler. He buys up bad debts, too. He 
makes a profession of it. But enough of him! Do you know 
what makes me angry? It’s their sickening, rotten, petrified 
routine. .. . And this case might be the means of introduc- 
ing a new method. One can show from the psychological 
data alone how to get on the track of the real man. ‘We 



have facts,’ they say. But facts are not everythine—at least 
half the business lies in how you interpret them!” 

“Can you interpret them, then?” 

“Anyway, one can’t hold one’s tongue when one has a 
feeling, a tangible feeling, that one might be a help if only 
».. Eh! Do you know the details of the case?” 

“T am waiting to hear about the painter.” 

“Oh yes! Well, here’s the story. Early on the third day 
after the murder, when they were still dandling Koch and 
Pestryakov—though they accounted for every step they took 
and it was as plain as a pikestaff—an unexpected fact turned 
up. A peasant called Dushkin, who keeps a dram-shop facing 
the house, brought to the police office a jeweller’s case con- 
taining some gold ear-rings, and told a long tigmarole. ‘The 
day before yesterday, just after eight o’clock’—mark the 
day and the hour!—‘a journeyman house-painter, Nikolay, 
who had been in to see me already that day, brought me this 
box of gold ear-rings and stones, and asked me to give him 
two roubles for them. When I asked him where he got 
them, he said that he picked them up in the street. I did 
not ask him anything more.’ I am telling you Dushkin’s story. 
‘I gave him a note’—a rouble that is—‘for I thought if he 
did not pawn it with me he would with another. It would all 
come to the same thiné—he’d spend it on drink, so the thing 
had better be with me, The further you hide it the quicker you 
will find it, and if anything turns up, if I hear any rumours, 
I’ll take it to the police.’ Of course, that’s all taradiddle; he 
lies like a horse, for I know this Dushkin, he is a pawn- 
broker and a receiver of stolen goods, and he did not cheat 
Nikolay out of a thirty-rouble trinket in order to give it to 
the police. He was simply afraid. But no matter, to return 
to Dushkin’s story. ‘I’ve known this peasant, Nikolay De- 
mentyev, from a child; he comes from the same province 
and district of Zaraisk, we are both Ryazan men. And 
though Nikolay is not a drunkard, he drinks, and I knew he 
had a job in that house, painting, working with Dmitri, who 
comes from the same village, too. As soon as he got the 
rouble, he changed it, had a couple of glasses, took his change 
and went out. But I did not see Dmitri with him then. And 
the next day I heard that some one had murdered Alyona 


Ivanovna and her sister, Lizaveta Ivanovna, with an axe. I 
knew them, and I felt suspicious about the ear-rings at once, 
for I knew the murdered woman lent money on pledges. I 
went to the house, and began to make careful inquiries with- 
out saying a word to any one. First of all I asked, “Is Niko- 
lay here?’ Dmitri told me that Nikolay had gone off on the 
spree; he had come home at daybreak drunk, stayed in the 
house about ten minutes, and went out again. Dmitri didn’t 
see him again in finishing the job alone. And their job is on 
the same staircase as the murder, on the second floor, When 
I heard all that I did not say a word to any one’—that’s 
Dushkin’s tale—‘but I found out what I could about the 
murder, and went home feeling as suspicious as ever. And at 
eight o’clock this morning’—that was the third day, you 
understand—‘I saw Nikolay coming in, not sober, though not 
to say very drunk—he could understand what was said to 
him. He sat down on the bench and did not speak. There 
was only one stranger in the bar and a man I knew asleep 
on a bench and our two boys. ‘Have you seen Dmitri?’ said 
I. ‘No, I haven't,’ said he. ‘And you’ve not been here either ?” 
‘Not since the day: before yesterday,’ said he. ‘And where 
did you sleep last night?’ ‘In Peski, with the Kolomensky 
men.’ ‘And where did you get those ear-rings?’ I asked. ‘T 
found them in the street,’ and the way he said it was a bit 
queer; he did not look at me. “Did you hear what happened 
that very evening, at that very hour, on that same staircase ?” 
said I. ‘No,’ said he, ‘I had not heard,’ and all the while 
he was listening, his eyes were starting out of his head and 
he turned as white as chalk. I told him all about it and he 
took his hat and began getting up. I wanted to keep him. 
“Wait a bit, Nikolay,’ said I, ‘won’t you have a drink?” And 
I signed to the boy to hold the door, and I came out from 
behind the bar; but he darted out and down the street to 
the turning at a run. I have not seen him since. Then my 
doubts were at an end—it was his doing, as clear as could 
Dee ker 

“T should think so,” said Zossimov. 

“Wait! Hear the end. Of course they sought high and 
low for Nikolay; they detained Dushkin and searched his 
house; Dmitri, too, was arrested; the Kolomensky men alse 


were turned inside out. And the day before yesterday they 
arrested Nikolay in a tavern at the end of the town. He had 
gone there, taken the silver cross off his neck and asked for 
a dram for it. They gave it to him. A few minutes after- 
wards the woman went to the cowshed, and through a crack 
in the wall she saw in the stable adjoining he had made a 
noose of his sash from the beam, stood on a block of wood, 
and was trying to put his neck in the noose. The woman 
screeched her hardest; people ran in. ‘So that’s what you 
are up to!’ ‘Take me,’ he says, ‘to such-and-such a pélice 
office; I’ll confess everything.’ Well, they took him to that 
police station—that is here—with a suitable escort. So 
they asked him this and that, how old he is, ‘twenty-two,’ 
and so on. At the question, ‘When you were working with 
Dmitri, didn’t you see any one on the staircase at such-and- 
such a time?’—answer: “To be sure folks may have gone 
up and down, but I did not notice them.’ ‘And didn’t you 
hear anything, any noise, and so on?’ ‘We heard nothing 
special.’ ‘And did you hear, Nikolay, that on the same day 
Widow So-and-so and her sister were murdered and robbed?” 
‘I never knew a thing about it. The first I heard of it was 
from Afanasy Pavlovitch the day before yesterday.’ ‘And 
where did you find the ear-rings?’ ‘I found them on the 
pavement.’ “Why didn’t you go to work with Dmitri the 
other day?’ ‘Because I was drinking. ‘And where were 
you drinking?’ ‘Oh, in such and such a place.’ ‘Why did 
you run away from Dushkin’s?’ ‘Because I was awfully 
frightened.’ ‘What were you frightened of?’ ‘That I should 
be accused.’ ‘How could you be frightened, if you felt free 
from guilt?’ Now, Zossimov, you may not believe me, that 
question was put literally in those words. I know it for a 
fact, it was repeated to me exactly! What do you say to 
that P” 

“Well, anyway, there’s the evidence.” 

“T am not talking of the evidence now, I am talking about 
that question, of their own idea of themselves. Well, so 
they squeezed and squeezed him and he confessed: ‘I did 
not find it in the street, but in the flat where I was painting 
with Dmitri” ‘And how was that?? ‘Why, Dmitri and I 
were painting there all day, and we were just getting ready 


to go, and Dmitri took a brush and painted my face, and he 
ran off and I after him. I ran after him, shouting my hard- 
est, and at the bottom of the stairs I ran right against the 
porter and some gentlemen—and how many gentlemen were 
there I don’t remember. And the porter swore at me, and 
the other porter swore, too, and the porter’s wife came out, 
and swore at us, too; and a gentleman came into the entry 
with a lady, and he swore at us, too, for Dmitri and I lay 
right across the way. I got hold of Dmitri’s hair and 
knocked him down and began beating him. And Dmitri, too, 
caught me by the hair and began beating me. But we did it 
all not for temper, but in a friendly way, for sport. And 
then Dmitri escaped and ran into the street, and I ran after 
him; but I did not catch him, and went back to the flat alone; 
I had to clear up my things. I began putting them together, 
expecting Dmitri to come, and there in the passage, in the 
corner by the door, I stepped on the box. I saw it lying 
there wrapped up in paper. I took off the paper, and saw 
some little hooks, undid them, and in the box were the 
€ar-rings. ...’”’ 

“Behind the door? Lying behind the door? Behind the 
door?’ Raskolnikov cried suddenly, staring with a blank 
look of terror at Razumihin, and slowly sat up on the sofa, 
leaning on his hand. 

“Yes ... why? What’s the matter? What’s wrong?” 
Razumihin, too, got up from his seat. 

“Nothing,” Raskolnikov answered faintly, turning to the 
wall. All were silent for a while. 

“He must have waked from a dream,” Razumihin said at 
last, looking inquiringly at Zossimov. The latter slightly 
shook his head. 

“Well, go on,” said Zossimov. “What next?” 

“What next? As soon as he saw the ear-rings, forgetting 
Dmitri and everything, he took up his cap and ran to Dushkin 
and, as we know, got a rouble from him. He told a lie say- 
ing he found them in the street, and went off drinking. He 
keeps repeating his old story about the murder: ‘I knew 
nothing of it, never heard of it till the day before yester- 
day.’ ‘And why didn’t you come to the police till now?’ ‘I 
was frightened. ‘And why did you try to hang yourself?’ 



‘From anxiety.’ ‘What anxiety?’ “That I should be accused 
of it’ Well, that’s the whole story. And now what do you 
suppose they deduced from that?” 

“Why, there’s no supposing. There’s a clue, such as it is, 
a fact. You wouldn’t have your painter set free?” 

“Now they’ve simply taken him for the murderer. They 
haven’t a shadow of doubt.” 

“That’s nonsense. You are excited. But what about the 
ear-rings? You must admit that, if on the very same day 
and hour ear-rings from the old woman’s box have come into 
Nikolay’s hands, they must have come there somehow. That’s 
a good deal in such a case.” 

“How did they get there? How did they get there?” cried 
Razumihin. “How can you, a doctor, whose duty it is to 
study man and who has more opportunity than any one else 
for studying human nature—how can you fail to see the 
character of the man in the whole story? Don’t you see at 
once that the answers he has given in the examination are 
the holy truth? They came into his hands precisely as he 
has told us—he stepped on the box and picked it up.” 

“The holy truth! But didn’t he own himself that he told 
a lie at first ?” 

“Listen to me, listen attentively. The porter and Koch and 
Pestryakov and the other porter and the wife of the first 
porter and the woman who was sitting in the porter’s lodge 
and the man Kryukov, who had just got out of a cab at that 
minute and went in at the entry with a lady on his arm, that 
is eight or ten witnesses, agree that Nikolay had Dmitri on 
the ground, was lying on him beating him, while Dmitri 
hung on to his hair, beating him, too. They lay right across 
the way, blocking the thoroughfare. They were sworn at 
on all sides while they ‘like children’ (the very words of the 
witnesses), were falling over one another, squealing, fight- 
ing and laughing with the funniest faces and, chasing one 
another like children, they ran into the street. Now take 
careful note. The bodies upstairs were warm, you under- 
stand, warm when they had found them! If they, or Nikolay 
alone, had murdered them and broken open the boxes, or 
simply taken part in the robbery, allow me to ask you one 
question: do their state of mind, their squeals and giggles 


and childish scuffling at the gate fit in with axes, bloodshed, 
fiendish cunning, robbery? They'd just killed them, not 
five or ten minutes before, for the bodies were still warm, 
and at once, leaving the flat open, knowing that people would 
go there at once, flinging away their booty they rolled about 
like children, laughing and attracting general attention. And 
there are a dozen witnesses to swear to that!” 

“Of coursé it is strange! It’s impossible, indeed, but... 

“No, brother, no buts. And if the ear-rings’ being found 
in Nikolay’s hands at the very day and hour of the murder 
constitutes an important piece of circumstantial evidence 
against him—although the explanation given by him accounts 
for it, and therefore it does not tell seriously against him— 
one must take into consideration the facts which prove him 
innocent, especially as they are facts that cannot be denied. 
And do you suppose, from the character of our legal system, 
that they will accept, or that they are in a position to accept, 
this fact—resting simply on a psychological impossibility—as 
irrefutable and conclusively breaking down the circumstan- 
tial evidence for the prosecution? No, they won’t accept it, 
they certainly won’t, because they found the jewel-case and 
the man tried to hang himself, ‘which he could not have done 
if he hadn’t felt guilty.’ That’s the point, that’s what excites 
me, you must understand !” 

“Oh, I see you are excited! Wait a bit. I forgot to ask 
you; what proof is there that the box came from the old 
woman ?” 

“That’s been proved,” said Razumihin with apparent re- 
luctance, frowning. “Koch recognised the jewel-case and 
gave the name of the owner, who proved conclusively that 
it was his.” 

“That’s bad. Now another point. Did any one see 
Nikolay at the time that Koch and Pestryakov were 
going upstairs at first, and is there no evidence about 

“Nobody did see him,” Razumihin answered with vexation. 
“That’s the worst of it. Even Koch and Pestryakov did not 
notice them on their way upstairs, though, indeed, their 
evidence could not have been worth much. They said they 
saw the flat was open, and that there must be work going 



on in it, but they took no special notice and could not re- 
member whether there actually were men at work in it.” 

“Hm! ... So the only evidence for the defence is that 
they were beating one another and laughing. That con- 
stitutes a strong presumption, but . . . How do you explain 
the facts yourself?” 

“How do I explain them? What is there to explain? It’s 
clear. At any rate, the direction in which explanation is to 
be sought is clear, and the jewel-case points to it. The real 
murderer dropped these ear-rings. The murderer was up- 
stairs, locked in, when Koch and Pestryakov knocked at the 
door. Koch, like an ass, did not stay at the door; so the 
murderer popped out and ran down, too, for he had no 
other way of escape. He hid from Koch, Pestryakov and 
the porter in the flat when Nikolay and Dmitri had just run 
out of it. He stopped there while the porter and others 
were going upstairs, waited till they were out of hearing, 
and then went calmly downstairs at the very minute when 
Dmitri and Nikolay ran out into the street and there was 
no one in the entry; possibly he was seen, but not noticed. 
There are lots of people going in and out. He must have 
- dropped the ear-rings out of his pocket when he stood be- 
hind the door, and did not notice he dropped them, because 
he had other things to think of. The jewel-case is a con- 
clusive proof that he did stand there. ... That’s how I 
explain it.” 

“Too clever! No, my boy, you’re too clever. That beats 
everything !” 

“But, why, why?” 

“Why, because everything fits too well... it’s too melo- 

“A-ach!” Razumihin was exclaiming, but at that moment 
the door opened and a personage came in who was 2 
stranger to all present. 

ae fe. ee 


HIS was a gentleman no longer young, of a stiff and 

portly appearance, and a cautious and sour counte- 

nance. He began by stopping short in the doorway, 
staring about him with offensive and undisguised astonish- 
ment, as though asking himself what sort of place he had 
come to. Mistrustfully and with an affectation of being 
alarmed and almost affronted, he scanned Raskolnikov’s low 
and narrow “cabin.” With the same amazement he stared 
at Raskolnikov, who lay undressed, dishevelled, unwashed, 
on his miserable dirty sofa, looking fixedly at him. Then 
with the same deliberation he scrutinised the uncouth, un- 
kempt figure and unshaven face of Razumihin, who looked 
him boldly and inquiringly in the face without rising from 
his seat.- A constrained silence lasted for a couple of 
minutes, and then, as might be expected, some scene-shifting: 
took place. Reflecting, probably from certain fairly unmis- 
takable signs, that he would get nothing in this “cabin” by 
attempting to overawe them, the gentleman softened some- 
what, and civilly, though with some severity, emphasising 
every syllable of his question, addressed Zossimov: 

“Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, a student, or formerly 
a student?” 

Zossimov madeja slight movement, and would have ane 
swered, had not Razumihin anticipated him. 

“Here he is lying on the sofa! What do you want?” 

This familiar “what do you want” seemed to cut the 
ground from the feet of the pompous gentleman. He was 
turning to Razumihin, but checked himself in time and 
turned to Zossimov again. 

“This is Raskolnikov,’ mumbled Zossimov, nodding to- 
wards him. Then he gave a prolonged yawn, opening his 
mouth as wide as possible. Then he lazily put his hand into 
his waistcoat-pocket, pulled out a huge gold watch in a 
round hunter’s case, opened it, looked at it and as slowly and 
lazily proceeded to put it back. 



Raskolnikov himself lay, without speaking, on his back, 
gazing persistently, though without understanding, at the 
stranger. Now that his face was turned away from the 
strange flower on the paper, it was extremely pale and wore 
a look of anguish, as though he had just undergone an 
agonising operation or just been taken from the rack. But 
the new-comer gradually began to arouse his attention, then 
his wonder, then suspicion and even alarm. When Zossimov 
said ‘this is Raskolnikov” he jumped up quickly, sat on the 
sofa and with an almost defiant, but weak and breaking, 
voice articulated: 

“Yes, Iam Raskolnikov! What do you want?” 

The visitor scrutinised him and pronounced impressively: 

“Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin, I believe I have reason to hope 
that my name is not wholly unknown to you?” 

But Raskolnikov, who had expected something quite dif- 
ferent, gazed blankly and dreamily at him, making no reply, 
as though he heard the name of Pyotr Petrovitch for the 
first time. 

“Ts it possible that you can up to the present have received 
no information?” asked Pyotr Petrovitch, somewhat dis- 

In reply Raskolnikov sank languidly back on the pillow, 
put his hands behind his head and gazed at the ceiling. A 
look of dismay came into Luzhin’s face. Zossimov and 
Razumihin stared at him more inquisitively than ever, and 
at last he showed unmistakable signs of embarrassment, 

“T had presumed and calculated,” he faltered, “that a letter 
posted more than ten days, if not a fortnight ago... .” 

“I say, why are you standing in the doorway?” Razumihin 
interrupted suddenly. “If you’ve something to say, sit down. 
Nastasya and you are so crowded. Nastasya, make room, 
Here’s a chair, thread your way in!” 

He moved his chair back from the table, made a little 
space between the table and his knees, and waited in a 
rather cramped position for the visitor to “thread his way 
in.’ The minute was so chosen that it was impossible to 
refuse, and the visitor squeezed his way through, hurrying 
and stumbling, Reaching the chair, he sat down, looking 
suspiciously at Razumihin. 


“No need to be nervous,” the latter blurted out. “Rodya 
has been ill for the last five days and delirious for three, but 
now he is recovering and has got an appetite. This is his 
doctor, who has just had a look at him. I am a comrade of 
Rodya’s, like him, formerly a student, and now I am nurs- 
ing him; so don’t you take any notice of us, but go on with 
your business.” 

“Thank you. But shall I not disturb the invalid by my 
presence and conversation?’ Pyotr Petrovitch asked of 

“N-no,” mumbled Zossimov; “you may amuse him.” He 
yawned again. 

“He has been conscious a long time, since the morning,” 
went on Razumihin, whose familiarity seemed so much like 
unaffected good-nature that Pyotr Petrovitch began to be 
more cheerful, partly, perhaps, because this shabby and im- 
pudent person had introduced himself as a student. 

“Your mamma,” began Luzhin. 

“Hm!” Razumihin cleared his throat loudly. Luzhin 
looked at him inquiringly. 

“That’s all right, go on.” 

Luzhin shrugged his shoulders. 

“Your mamma had commenced a letter to you while I was 
sojourning in her neighbourhood. On my arrival here I 
purposely allowed a few days to elapse before coming to see 
you, in order that I might be fully assured that you were in 
full possession of the tidings; but now, to my astonish- 
ment . « ig 

“T know, I know!” Raskolnikov cried suddenly with im- 
patient vexation. “So you are the fiancé? I know, and 
that’s enough!” 

There was no doubt about Pyotr Petrovitch’s being of- 
fended this time, but he said nothing. He made a violent 
effort to understand what it all meant. There was a mo- 
ment’s silence. 

Meanwhile Raskolnikov, who had turned a little towards 
him when he answered, began suddenly staring at him again 
with marked curiosity, as though he had not had a good 
look at him yet, or as though something new had struck 
him; he rose from his pillow on purpose to stare at him, 



There certainly was something peculiar in Pyotr Petrovitch’s 
whole appearance, something which seemed to justify the 
title of “fiancé” so unceremoniously applied to him. In the 
first place, it was evident, far too much so indeed, that 
Pyotr Petrovitch had made eager use of his few days in the 
capital to get himself up and rig himself out in expectation 
of his betrothed—a perfectly innocent and permissible pro- 
ceeding, indeed. Even his own, perhaps too complacent, 
consciousness of the agreeable improvement in his appear- 
ance might have been forgiven in such circumstances, seeifig 
that Pyotr Petrovitch had taken up the rdle of fiancé. All 
_his clothes were fresh from the tailor’s and were all right, 
except for being too new and too distinctly appropriate. 
Even the stylish new round hat had the same significance. 
Pyotr Petrovitch treated it too respectfully and held it too 
carefully in his hands. The exquisite pair of lavender 
gloves, real Louvain, told the same tale, if only from the 
fact of his not wearing them, but carrying them in his hand 
for show. Light and youthful colours predominated in 
Pyotr Petrovitch’s attire. He wore a charming summer 
jacket of a fawn shade, light thin trousers, a waistcoat of the 
- same, new and fine linen, a cravat of the lightest cambric 
with pink stripes on it, and the best of it was, this all suited 
Pyotr Petrovitch. His very fresh and even handsome face 
looked younger than his forty-five years at all times. His 
dark, mutton-chop whiskers made an agreeable setting on 
both sides, growing thickly about his shining, clean-shaven 
chin. Even his hair, touched here and there with grey, 
though it had been combed and curled at a hairdresser’s, did 
not give him a stupid appearance, as curled hair usually does, 
by inevitably suggesting a German on his wedding-day. If 
there really was something unpleasing and repulsive in his 
rather good-looking and imposing countenance, it was due 
to quite other causes. After scanning Mr, Luzhin uncere- 
moniously, Raskolnikov smiled malignantly, sank back on the 
pillow and stared at the ceiling as before. 

But Mr. Luzhin hardened his heart and seemed to de- 
termine to take no notice of their oddities. 

“T feel the greatest regret at finding you in this situation,” 
he began, again breaking the silence with an effort. “If I 

ee ee ee ee ay 


had been aware of your illness I should have come earlier. 
But you know what business is. I have, too, a very impor- 
tant legal affair in the Senate, not to mention other pre- 
occupations which you may well conjecture. I am expecting 
your mamma and sister any minute.” 

Raskolnikov made a movement and seemed about to speak; 
his face showed some excitement. Pyotr Petrovitch paused, 
waited, but as nothing followed, he went on: 

“ ... Any minute. I have found a lodging for them on 
their arrival.” 

“Where?” asked Raskolnikov weakly. 

“Very near here, in Bakaleyev’s house.” 

“That’s in Voskresensky,” put in Razumihin. “There are 
two storeys of rooms, let by a merchant called Yushin; I’ve 
been there.” 

“Yes, rooms... 

“A disgusting place—filthy, stinking and, what’s more, of 
doubtful character. Things have happened there, and there 
are all sorts of queer people living there. And I went there 
about a scandalous business. It’s cheap, though .. .” 

“T could not, of course, find out so much about it, for I am 
a stranger in Petersburg myself,” Pyotr Petrovitch replied 
huffily. “However, the two rooms are exceedingly clean, 
and as it is for so short a time... I have already taken a 
permanent, that is, our future flat,” he said, addressing 
Raskolnikov, “and I am having it done up. And meanwhile 
I am myself cramped for room in a lodging with my friend 
Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, in the flat of Madame 
Lippevechsel; it was he who told me of Bakaleyev’s house, 
02 Pe 

“Lebeziatnikov ?” said Raskolnikov slowly, as if recalling 

“Yes, Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, a clerk in the 
Ministry. Do you know him?” 

“Yes... no,” Raskolnikov answered. 

“Excuse me, I fancied so from your inquiry. I was once 
his guardian. .. A very nice young man and advanced. I 
like to meet young people: one learns new things from them.” 
Luzhin looked round hopefully at them all. 

“How do you mean?” asked Razumihin. 



“In the most serious and essential matters,” Pyotr Petro- 
vitch replied, as though delighted at the question. “You see, 
it’s ten years since I visited Petersburg. All the novelties, 
reforms, ideas have reached us in the provinces, but to see 
it all more clearly one must be in Petersburg. And it’s my 
notion that you observe and learn most by watching the 
younger generation. And I confess I am delighted... .” 

“At what?” 

“Your question is a wide one. I may be mistaken, but I 
fancy I find clearer views, more, so to say, criticism, more 
practicality ...” 

“That’s true,” Zossimov let drop. 

“Nonsense! There’s no practicality.” Razumihin flew at 
him. “Practicality is a difficult thing to find; it does not 
drop down from heaven. And for the last two hundred 
years we have been divorced from all practical life. Ideas, 
if you like, are fermenting,” he said to Pyotr Petrovitch, 
“and desire for good exists, though it’s in a childish form, 
and honesty you may find, although there are crowds of 
brigands. Anyway, there’s no practicality. Practicality goes 
well shod,” 

“T don’t agree with you,” Pyotr Petrovitch replied, with 
evident enjoyment. “Of course, people do get carried away 
and make mistakes, but one must have indulgence; those 
mistakes are merely evidence of enthusiasm for the cause 
and of abnormal external environment. If little has been 
done, the time has been but short; of means I will not speak, 
It’s my personal view, if you care to know, that something 
has been accomplished already. New valuable ideas, new 
valuable works are circulating in the place of our old 
dreamy and romantic authors. Literature is taking a 
maturer form, many injurious prejudices have been rooted 
up and turned into ridicule. ...In a word, we have cut 
ourselves off irrevocably from the past, and that, to my 
thinking, is a great thing...” 

“He’s learnt it by heart to show off!” Raskolnikov pro< 
nounced suddenly. 

“What?” asked Pyotr Petrovitch, not catching his words; 
but he received no reply. 

“That’s all true,” Zossimov hastened to interpose. 


“TIsn’t it so?’ Pyotr Petrovitch went on, glancing affably 
at Zossimov. “You must admit,’ he went on, addressing 
Razumihin with a shade of triumph and superciliousness— 
he almost added “young man’’-—“that there is an advance, 
or, as they say now, progress in the name of science and 
economic truth .. .” 

Oe: dididwalane.? 

“No, not a commonplace! Fithdrto, for instance, if I were 
told ‘love thy neighbour,’ what came of it?” Pyotr Petrovitch 
went on, perhaps with excessive haste. “It came to my tear- 
ing my coat in half to share with my neighbour and we both 
were left half naked. As a Russian proverb has it, ‘catch 
several hares and you won’t catch one.’ Science now tells us, 
love yourself before all men, for everything in the world 
rests on self-interest. You love yourself and manage your 
own affairs properly and your coat remains whole. Eco- 
nomic truth adds that the better private affairs are organised 
in society—the more whole coats, so to say—the firmer are 
its foundations and the better is the common welfare or- 
ganised too. Therefore, in acquiring wealth solely and 
exclusively for myself, I am acquiring so to speak, for all, 
and helping to bring to pass my neighbour’s getting a little 
more than a torn coat; and that not from private, personal 
liberality, but as a consequence of the general advance. The 
idea is simple, but unhappily it has been a long time reach- 
ing us, being hindered by idealism and sentimentality. 
And yet it would seem to want very little wit to perceive 
Gd ok? 

“Excuse me, I’ve very little wit myself,” Razumihin cut in 
sharply, “and so let us drop it. I began this discussion with 
an object, but I’ve grown so sick during the last three years 
of this chattering to amuse oneself, of this incessant flow of 
commonplaces, always the same, that, by Jove, I blush even 
when other people talk like that. You are in a hurry, no 
doubt, to exhibit your acquirements; and I don’t blame you, 
that’s quite pardonable. I only wanted to find out what sort 
of man you are, for so many unscrupulous people have got 
hold of the progressive cause of late and have so distorted 
in their own interests.everything they touched, that the whole 
cause has been dragged in the mire. That’s enough!” 


“Excuse me, sir,” said Luzhin, affronted, and speaking 
with excessive dignity. “Do you mean to suggest so un- 
ceremoniously that I too .. .” 

“Oh, my dear sir .. . how could I? . .. Come, that’s 
enough,” Razumihin concluded, and he turned abruptly to 
Zossimov to continue their previous conversation. 

Pyotr Petrovitch had the good sense to accept the dis- 
avowal. He made up his mind to take leave in another 
minute or two, 

“T trust our acquaintance,” he said, addressing Raskol- 
nikov, “may, upon your recovery and in view of the cir- 
cumstances of which you are aware, become closer... ., 
Above all, I hope for your return to health .. .” f 

Raskolnikov did not even turn his head. Pyotr Petrovitch 
began getting up from his chair. 

“One of her customers must have killed her,’ Zossimov 
declared positively. 

“Not a doubt of it,” replied Razumihin. “Porfiry doesn’t 
give his opinion, but is examining all who have left pledges 
with her there.” 

“Examining them?” Raskolnikov asked aloud. 

“Yes. What then?” 


“How does he get hold of them?” asked Zossimov. 

“Koch has given the names of some of them, other names 
are on the wrappers of the pledges and some have come 
forward of themselves.” 

“Tt must have been a cunning and practised ruffan! The 
boldness of it! The coolness!” 

“That’s just what it wasn’t!” ‘interposed Razumihin. 
“That’s what throws you all off the scent. But I maintain 
that he is not cunning, not practised, and probably this was 
his first crime! The supposition that it was a calculated 
crime and a cunning criminal doesn’t work. Suppose him to 
have been inexperienced, and it’s clear that it was only a 
chance that saved him—and chance may do anything. Why, 
he did not foresee obstacles, perhaps! And how did he set 
to work! He took jewels worth ten or twenty roubles, stuff- 
ing his pockets with them, ransacked the old woman’s trunk, 
her rags—and they found fifteen hundred roubles, besides 


notes, in a box in the top drawer of the chest! He did not 
know how to rob; he could only murder. It was his first 
crime, I assure you, his first crime; he lost his hand. And 
he got off more by luck than good counsel!” 

“You are talking of the murder of the old pawnbroker, I 
believe?” Pyotr Petrovitch put in, addressing Zossimov. He 
was standing, hat and gloves in hand, but before departing 
he felt disposed to throw off a few more intellectual phrases. 
He was evidently anxious to make a favourable impression 
and his vanity overcame his prudence. 

“Yes. You've heard of it?” 

“Oh, yes, being in the neighbourhood.” 

“Do you know the details?” 

“T can’t say that; but another circumstance interests me 
in the case—the whole question, so to say. Not to speak of 
the fact that crime has been greatly on the increase among 
the lower classes during the last five years, not to speak of 
the cases of robbery and arson everywhere, what strikes me 
as the strangest thing is that in the higher classes, too, crime 
is increasing proportionately. In one place one hears of a 
student’s robbing the mail on the high road; in another place 
people of good social position forge false banknotes; in 
Moscow of late a whole gang has been captured who used to 
forge lottery tickets, and one of the ringleaders was a 
lecturer in universal history; then our secretary abroad was 
murdered from some obscure motive of gain. ... And if 
this old woman, the pawnbroker, has been murdered by some 
one of a higher class in society—for peasants don’t pawn 
gold trinkets—how are we to explain this demoralisation of 
the civilised part of our society?” 

“There are many economic changes,” put in Zossimov. 

“How are we to explain it?” Razumihin caught him 
up. “It might be explained by our inveterate impracti- 

“How do you mean?” 

“What answer had your lecturer in Moscow to make to the 
question why he was forging notes? ‘Everybody is getting 
rich one way or another, so I want to make haste to get rich 
too.’ I don’t remember the exact words, but the upshot was 
that he wants money for nothing, without waiting or work- 


ing! We’ve grown used to having everything ready-made, 
to walking on crutches, to having our food chewed for us. 
Then the great hour struck,’ and every man showed himself 
in his true colours.” 

“But morality? And so to speak, principles .. .” 

“But why do you worry about it?” Raskolnikov inter- 
posed suddenly. “It’s in accordance with your theory!” 

“In accordance with my theory?” 

“Why, carry out logically the theory you were advocating 
just now, and it follows that people may be killed .. .” 

“Upon my word!” cried Luzhin. 

“No, that’s not so,” put in Zossimov. , 

Raskolnikov lay with a white face and twitching upper lip, 
breathing painfully. 

“There’s a measure in all things,” Luzhin went on super- 
ciliously. “Economic ideas are not an incitement to murder, 
and one has but to suppose .. .” 

“And is it true,” Raskolnikov interposed once more sud- 
denly, again in a voice quivering with fury and delight in 
insulting him, “is it true that you told your fiancée... 
within an hour of her acceptance, that what pleased you 
most ... was that she was a beggar... because it was 
better to raise a wife from poverty, so that you may have 
complete control over her, and reproach her with your being 
her benefactor ?” 

“Upon my word,” Luzhin cried wrathfully and irritably, 
crimson with confusion, “to distort my words in this way! 
Excuse me, allow me to assure you that the report which has 
reached you, or rather let me say, has been conveyed to you, 
has no foundation in truth, and I ... suspect who... ina 
word ... this arrow ... ina word, your mamma... She 
seemed to me in other things, with all her excellent qualities, 
of a somewhat highflown and romantic way of thinking ... 
But I was a thousand miles from supposing that she would 
misunderstand and misrepresent things in so fanciful a way. 
»s. And indeed . .\. indeed .. .” 

“T tell you what,” cried Raskolnikov, raising himself on his 
pillow and fixing his piercing, glittering eyes upon him, “I 
tell you what.” 

% The emancipation of the serfs in 1861 is meant.—TRANSLAToR’s NOTE. 


“What?” Luzhin stood still, waiting with a defiant and 
offended face. Silence lasted for some seconds. 

“Why, if ever again... you dare to mention a single 
word ...about my mother ...I shall send you flying 

“What's the matter with you?” cried Razumihin. 

“So that’s how it is?” Luzhin turned pale and bit his lip. 
“Let me tell you, sir,” he began deliberately, doing his utmost 
to restrain himself but breathing hard, “at the first moment 
I saw you were ill-disposed to me, but I remained here on 
purpose to find out more. I could forgive a great deal ina 
sick man and a connection, but you ...mever after 
thie) 53 

“T am not ill,” cried Raskolnikov. 

“So much the worse .. .” 

“Go to hell!” 

But Luzhin was already leaving without finishing his 
speech, squeezing between the table and the chair; Razumihin 
got up this time to let him pass. Without glancing at any 
one, and not even nodding to Zossimoy, who had for some 
time been making signs to him to let the sick man alone, he 
went out, lifting his hat to the level of his shoulder to avoid 
crushing it as he stooped to go out of the door. And even 
the curve of his spine was expressive of the horrible insult 
he had received. 

“How could you—how could you!” Razumihin said, shak- 

ing his head in perplexity. 

“Let me alone—let me alone all of you!” Raskolnikov 
cried in a frenzy. “Will you ever leave off tormenting me? 
I am not afraid of you! I am not afraid of any one, any 
one now! Get away from me! I want to be alone, alone, 

“Come along,” said Zossimov, nodding to Razumihin. 

“But we can’t leave him like this!” 

“Come along,” Zossimov repeated insistently, and he 
went out. Razumihin thought a minute and ran to over- 
take him. 

“It might be worse not to obey him,” said Zossimov on the 
stairs. “He mustn’t be irritated.” 

“What's the matter with him?” 


“Tf only he could get some favourable shock, that’s what 
would do it! At first he was better. . . . You know he has 
got something on his mind! Some fixed idea weighing on 
him. ... 1 am very much afraid so; he must have!” 

“Perhaps it’s that gentleman, Pyotr Petrovitch. From his 
conversation I gather he is going to marry his sister, and 
that he had received a letter about it just before his 
illness... .” 

“Yes, confound the man! he may have upset the case alto- 
gether. But have you noticed, he takes no interest in any- 
thing, he does not respond to anything except one point on 
which he seems excited—that’s the murder?” 5 

“Yes, yes,” Razumihin agreed, “I noticed that, too. He is 
interested, frightened. It gave him a shock on the day he 
was ill in the police office; he fainted.” 

“Tell me more about that this evening and I'll tell you 
something afterwards. He interests me very much! In half 
an hour I’ll go and see him again. ... There'll be no in- 
flammation though.” 

“Thanks! And I'll wait with Pashenka meantime and will 
keep watch on him through Nastasya... .” 

Raskolnikov, left alone, looked with impatience and misery 
at Nastasya, but she still lingered. 

“Won't you have some tea now?” she asked. 

“Later! I am sleepy! Leave me.” 

He turned abruptly to the wall; Nastasya went out. 


UT as soon as she went out, he got up, latched the 
B door, undid the parcel which Razumihin had brought 

in that evening and had tied up again, and began 
dressing. Strange to say, he seemed immediately to have 
become perfectly calm; not a trace of his recent delirium 
nor of the panic fear that had haunted him of late. It was 
the first moment of a strange sudden calm. His movements 
were precise and definite; a firm purpose was evident in 
them. “To-day, to-day,” he muttered to himself. He under- 
stood that he was still weak, but his intense spiritual con- 
centration gave him strength and self-confidence. He 
hoped, moreover, that he would not fall down ‘in the street. 
When he had dressed in entirely new clothes, he looked at 
the money lying on the table, and after a moment’s thought 
put it in his pocket. It was twenty-five roubles. He took 
also all the copper change from the ten roubles spent by 
Razumihin on the clothes. Then he softly unlatched the 
door, went out, slipped downstairs and glanced in at the 
open kitchen door. Nastasya was standing with her back to 
him, blowing up the landlady’s samovar. She heard noth- 
ing. Who would have dreamed of his going out, indeed? 
A minute later he was in the street. 

It is nearly eight o’clock, the sun was setting. It was 
as stifling as before, but he eagerly drank in the stinking, 
dusty town air. His head felt rather dizzy; a sort of savage 
energy gleamed suddenly in his feverish eyes and his 
wasted, pale and yellow face. He did not know and did not 
think where he was going, he had one thought only “that 
all this must be ended to-day, once for all, immediately; 
that he would not return home without it, because he would 
not go on living like that.’ How, with what to make an 
end? He had not an idea about it, he did not even want to 
think of it. He drove away thought; thought tortured him. 
All he knew, all he felt was that everything must be changed 



“one way or another,” he repeated with desperate and im- 
movable self-confidence and determination. ~ 

From old habit he took his usual walk in the direction of 
the Hay Market. A dark-haired young man with a barrel 
organ was standing in the-road in front of a little general 
shop and was grinding out a very sentimental song. He was 
accompanying a girl of fifteen, who stood on the pavement 
in front of him. She was dressed up in a crinoline, a mantle 
and a straw hat with a flame-coloured feather in it, all very 
old and shabby. In a strong and rather agreeable voice, 
cracked and coarsened by street singing, she sang in hope 
of getting a copper from the shop. Raskolnikov joined two 
or three listeners, took out a five copeck piece and put it in 
the girl’s hand. She broke off abruptly on a sentimental 
high note, shouted sharply to the organ grinder “(Come on,” 
and both moved on to the next shop. 

“Do you like street music?” said Raskolnikov, addressing 
a middle-aged man standing idly by him. The man looked 
at him, startled and wondering. 

“T love to hear singing to a street organ,” said Raskolnikov, 
and his manner seemed strangely out of keeping with the 
subject—“I like it on cold, dark, damp autumn evenings— 
they must be damp—when all the passers-by have pale green, 
sickly faces, or better still when wet snow is falling straight 
‘down, when there’s no wind—you know what I mean? and 
the street lamps shine through it... .” 

“T don’t know. ... Excuse me...” muttered the stran- 
ger, frightened by the question and Raskolnikov’s strange 
manner, and he crossed over to the other side of the 

Raskolnikov walked straight on and came out at the 
corner of the Hay Market, where the huckster and his wife 
had talked with Lizaveta; but they were not there now. 
Recognizing the place, he stopped, looked round and ad- 
dressed a young fellow in a red shirt who stood gaping 
before a corn chandler’s shop. 

“Isn’t there a man who keeps a booth with his wife at this 
corner ?” 

“All sorts of people keep booths here,’ answered the 
young man, glancing superciliously at Raskolnikov. 


“What’s his name?” 

“What he was christened.” 

“Aren’t you a Zaraisky man, too? Which province?” 

The young man looked at Raskolnikov again. 

“It’s not a province, your excellency, but a district. 
Graciously forgive me, your excellency !” 

“Ts that a tavern at the top there?” 

“Yes, it’s an eating-house and there’s a billiard-room and 
you'll find princesses there too,.,. La-la!” 

Raskolnikov crossed the square. In that corner there was 
a dense crowd of peasants. He pushed his way into the 
thickest part of it, looking at the faces. He felt an unace 
countable inclination to enter into conversation with people, 
But the peasants took no notice of him; they were all shout- 
ing in groups together. He stood and thought a little and 
took a turning to the right in the direction of V. 

He had often crossed that little street which turns at an 
angle, leading from the market-place to Sadovy Street. Of 
late he had often felt drawn to wander about this district, 
when he felt depressed, that he might feel more so. 

Now he walked along, thinking of nothing. At that point 
there is a great block of buildings, entirely let out in dram 
shops and eating-houses; women were continually running in 
and out, bare-headed and in their indoor clothes. Here and 
there they gathered in groups, on the pavement, especially 
about the entrances to various festive establishments in the 
lower storeys. From one of these a loud din, sounds of sing- 
ing, the tinkling of a guitar and shouts of merriment, floated 
into the street. A crowd of women were thronging round 
the door; some were sitting on the steps, others on the pave- 
ment, others were standing talking. A drunken soldier, 
smoking a cigarette, was walking near them in the road, 
swearing ; he seemed to be trying to find his way somewhere, 
but had forgotten where. One beggar was quarrelling with 
another, and a man dead drunk was lying right across the 
road. Raskolnikov joined the throng of women, who were 
talking in husky voices. They were bare-headed and wore 
cotton dresses and goatskin shoes. There were women of 
forty and some.not more than seventeen; almost all had 
blackened eyes. 


He felt strangely attracted by the singing and all the noise 
and uproar in the saloon below. ... Some one could be 
heard within dancing frantically, marking time with his 
heels to the sounds of the guitar and of a thin falsetto voice 
singing a jaunty air. He listened intently, gloomily and 
dreamily, bending down at the entrance and peeping in- 
quisitively in from the pavement. 

“Oh, my handsome soldier 
Don’t beat me for nothing,” 

trilled the thin voice of the singer. Raskolnikov felt a great 
desire to make out what he was singing, as though every-, 
thing depended on that. 

“Shall I go in?” he thought. ‘They are laughing. From 
drink. Shall I get drunk?” 

“Won’t you come in?” one of the women asked him. Her 
voice was still musical and less thick than the others, she was 
young and not repulsive—the only one of the group. 

“Why, she’s pretty,” he said, drawing himself up and 
looking at her. 

She smiled, much pleased at the compliment. 

“You're very nice looking yourself,” she said. 

“Tsn’t he thin though!’ observed another woman in a deep 
bass. “Have you just come out of a hospital?” 

“They’re all generals’ daughters it seems, but they have all 
snub noses,” interposed a tipsy peasant with a sly smile on 
his face, wearing a loose coat. “See how jolly they are.” 

“Go along with you!” 

“T’ll go, sweetie!” 

And he darted down into the saloon below. Raskolnikov 
moved on. 

“T say, sir,’ the girl shouted after him. 

“What is it?” 

She hesitated. 

“I'll always be pleased to spend an hour with you, kind 
gentleman, but now I feel shy. Give me six CODER for a 
drink, there’s a nice young man!” 

Raskolnikov gave her what came first—fifteen copecks. 

“Ah, what a good-natured gentleman!” 

“‘What’s your name?” 


“Ask for Duclida.” 

“Well, that’s too much,” one of the women observed, shak- 
ing her head at Duclida. “I don’t know how you can ask 
like that. I believe I should drop with shame... .” 

Raskolnikov looked curiously at the speaker. She was a 
pock-marked wench of thirty, covered with bruises, with her 
upper lip swollen. She made her criticism quietly and ear- 
nestly. “Where is it,” thought Raskolnikov. ‘Where is it 
I’ve read that some one condemned to death says or thinks, 
an hour before his death, that if he had to live on some high 
rock, on such a narrow ledge that he’d only room to stand, 
and the ocean, everlasting darkness, everlasting solitude, 
everlasting tempest around him, if he had to remain stand- 
ing on a square yard of space all his life, a thousand years, 
eternity, it were better to live so than to die at once! Only 
to live, to live and live! Life, whatever it may be!... How 
true it is! Good God, how true! Man is a, vile creature! 
. .. And vile is he who calls him vile for that,” he added a 
moment later. 

He went into another street. “Bah, the Palais de Crystal! 
Razumihin was just talking of the Palais de Crystal. But 
what on earth was it I wanted? Yes, the newspapers. ... 
Zossimov said he’d read it in the papers. Have you the 
papers?” he asked, going into a very spacious and positively 
clean restaurant, consisting of several rooms, which were 
however rather empty. Two or three people were drinking 
tea, and in a room further away were sitting four men drink- 
ing champagne. Raskolnikov fancied that Zametov was one 
of them, but he could not be sure at that distance. “What 
if it is!” he thought. 

“Will you have vodka?” asked the waiter. 

“Give me some tea and bring me the papers, the old ones 
for the last five days and I'll give you something.” 

“Yes, sir, here’s to-day’s. No vodka?” 

The old newspapers and the tea were brought. Raskolnikov 
sat down and began to look through them. 23 

“Oh, damn... these are the items of intelligence. An 
accident on a staircase, spontaneous combustion of a shop- 
keeper from alcohol, a fire in Peski . . . a fire in the Peters- 
burg quarter ... another fire in the Petersburg quarter 


. +. and another fire in the Petersburg quarter. ... Ah, 
here it is!” He found at last what he was seeking and 
began to read it. The lines danced before his eyes, but he 
read it all and began eagerly seeking later additions in the 
following nutnbers. His hands shook with nervous im- 
patience as he turned the sheets. Suddenly some one sat 
down beside him at his table. He looked up, it was the head 
clerk Zametov, looking just the same, with the rings on his 
fingers and the watch-chain, with the curly, black hair, 
parted and pomaded, with the smart waistcoat, rather shabby 
coat and doubtful linen. He was in a good humour, at least 
he was smiling very gaily and good-humouredly. His dark 
face was rather flushed from the champagne he had drunk. 

“What, you here?” he began in stirprise, speaking as 
though he’d known him all his life. “Why, Razumihin told 
me only yesterday you were unconscious. How strange! 
And do you know I’ve been to see you?” 

Raskolnikov knew he would come up to him. He laid 
aside the papers and turned to Zametov. There was a smile 
on his lips, and a new shade of irritable impatience was 
apparent in that smile. 

“I know you have,” he answered. “I’ve heard it. You 
looked for my sock. ... And you know Razumihin has lost 
-his heart to you? He says you’ve been with him to Luise 
Ivanovna’s, you know the woman you tried to befriend, for 
whom you winked to the Explosive Lieutenant and he would 
not understand. Do you remember? How could he fail to 
understand—it was quite clear, wasn’t it?” 

“What a hot head he is!” 

“The explosive one?” 

“No, your friend Razumihin.” 

“You mtst have a jolly life, Mr. Zametov; entrance free 
to the most agreeable places. Who’s been pouring cham- 
pagne into you just now?” 

“We've just been... having a drink together... . You 
talk about pouring it into me!” 

“By way of a fee! You profit by everything!” Raskol- 
nikov laughed, “it’s all right, my dear boy,” he added, slap- 
ping Zametov on the shoulder. “I am not speaking from 
temper, but in a friendly way, for sport, as that workman of 


yours said when he was scuffling with Dmitri, in the case of 
the old woman... .” 

“How do you know about it?” 

“Perhaps I know more about it than you do.” 

“How strange you are.... Iam sure you are still very 
unwell. You oughtn’t to have come out.” 

“Oh, do I seem strange to you?” 

“Yes. What are you doing, reading the papers?” 


“There’s a lot about the fires.” 

“No, I am not reading about the fires.” Here he looked 
mysteriously at Zametov; his lips were twisted again in a 
mocking smile. ‘No, I am not reading about the fires,” he 
went on, winking at Zametov. “But confess now, my dear 
fellow, you’re awfully anxious to know what I am reading 
about ?” 

“T am not in the least. Mayn’t I ask a question? Why 
do you keep on.. .?” 

“Listen, you are a man of culture and education?” 

“T was in the sixth class at the gymnasium,’ said Zametov 
with some dignity. 

“Sixth class! Ah, my cocksparrow! With your parting 
and your rings—you are a gentleman of fortune. Foo, what 
a charming boy!’ Here Raskolnikov broke into a nervous 
laugh right in Zametov’s face. The latter drew back, more 
amazed than offended. 

“Foo, how strange you are!’ Zametov repeated very seri- 
ously. “I can’t help thinking you are still delirious.” 

“T am delirious? You are fibbing, my cocksparrow! Se 
I am strange? You find me curious, do you?” 

“Yes, curious.” 

“Shall I tell you what I was reading about, what I was 
looking for? See what a lot of papers I’ve made them bring 
me. Suspicious, eh?” 

“Well, what is it?” 

“You prick up your ears?” 

“How do you mean—prick up my ears?” 

“Tl explain that afterwards, but now, my boy, I declare 
to you... no, better ‘I confess’. . . No, that’s not right 
either ; ‘I make a deposition and you take it.’ I depose that 


I was reading, that I was looking and searching...” he 
screwed up his eyes and paused. “I was searching—and 
came here on purpose to do it—for news of the murder of the 
old pawnbroker woman,” he articulated at last, almost in a 
whisper, bringing his face exceedingly close to the face of 
Zametov. Zametov looked at him steadily, without moving 
or drawing his face away. What struck Zametov afterwards 
as the strangest part of it all was that silence followed for 
exactly a minute, and that they gazed at one another all 
the while. 

“What if you have been reading about it?” he cried at 
last, perplexed and impatient. ‘““That’s no business of mine! 
What of it?” 

“The same old woman,” Raskolnikov went on in the same 
whisper, not heeding Zametov’s explanation, “about whom 
you were talking in the police-office, you remember, when I 
fainted. . Well, do you understand now?” 

“What do you mean? Understand ... what?” Zametov 
brought out, almost alarmed. 

Raskolnikov’s set and earnest face was suddenly trans- 
formed, and he suddenly went off into the same nervous 
laugh as before, as though utterly unable to restrain himself. 
And in one flash he recalled with extraordinary vividness of 
_ sensation a moment in the recent past, that moment when he 
stood with the axe behind the door, while the latch trembled 
and the men outside swore and shook it, and he had a sudden 
desire to shout at them, to swear at them, to put out his 
tongue at them, to mock them, to laugh, and laugh, and 
laugh ! 

“You are either mad, or...” began Zametov, and he 
broke off, as though stunned by ‘the idea that had suddenly 
flashed into his mind. 

“Or? Or what? What? Come, tell me!” 

“Nothing,” said Zametov, getting angry, “it’s all non- 
sense !” 

Both were silent. After his sudden fit of laughter Ras- 
kolnikov became suddenly thoughtful and melancholy. He 
put his elbow on the table and leaned his head on his hand. 
He seemed to have completely forgotten Zametov. The 
silence lasted for some time. 


“Why don’t you drink your tea? It’s getting cold,” said 

“What! Tea? Oh, yes....” Raskolnikov sipped the 
glass, put a morsel of bread in his mouth and, suddenly look- 
ing at Zametov, seemed to remember everything and pulled 
himself together. At the same moment his face resumed its 
original mocking expression. He went on drinking tea. 

“There have been a great many of these crimes lately,” 
said Zametov. “Only the other day I read in the Moscow 
News that a whole gang of false coiners had been caught in 
Moscow. It was a regular society. They used to forge 
tickets !” 

“Oh, but it was a long time ago! I read about it a month 
ago,” Raskolnikov answered calmly. “So you consider them 
criminals?” he added smiling. 

“Of course they are criminals.” 

“They? They are children, simpletons, not criminals! 
Why, half a hundred people meeting for such an object— 
what an idea! Three would be too many, and then they 
want to have more faith in one other than in themselves! 
One has only to blab in his cups and it all collapses. Simple- 
tons! They engaged untrustworthy people to change the 
notes—what a thing to trust to a casual stranger! Well, let 
us suppose that these simpletons succeed and each makes a 
million, and what follows for the rest of their lives? Each 
is dependent on the others for the rest of his life! Better 
hang oneself at once! And they did not know how to 
change the notes either; the man who changed the notes 
took five thousand roubles, and his hands trembled. He 
counted the first four thousand, but did not count the fifth 
thousand—he was in such a hurry to get the money into © 
his pocket and run away. Of course he roused suspicion. 
And the whole thing came to a crash through one fool! Is 
it possible?” 

“That his hands trembled?” observed Zametov, “yes, 
that’s quite possible. That I feel quite sure is possible. 
Sometimes one can’t stand things.” 

“Can’t stand that?” 

“Why, could you stand it then? No, I couldn’t. For the 
sake, of a hundred roubles to face such a terrible experience! 


To go with false notes into a bank where it’s their business 
to spot that sort of thing! No, I should not have the face to 
do it. Would you?” 

Raskolnikov had an intense desire again “to put his tongue 
out.” Shivers kept running down his spine. 

“I should do it quite differently,’ Raskolnikov began 
“This is how I would change the notes: I’d count the first 
thousand three or four times backwards and forwards, look- 
ing at every note and then I’d set to the second thousand; 
I’d count that half way through and then hold some fifty 
rouble note to the light, then turn it, then hold it to the light 
again—to see whether it was a good one? ‘I am afraid,’ I 
would say, ‘a relation of mine lost twenty-five roubles the 
other day through a false note,’ and then Id tell them the 
whole story. And after I began counting the third, ‘no, 
excuse me, I would say, ‘I fancy I made a mistake in the 
seventh hundred in that second thousand, I am not sure.’ 
And so I would give up the third thousand and go back to 
the second and so on to the end. And when I had finished, 
I’d pick out one from the fifth and one from the second 
thousand and take them again to the light and ask again 
‘change them, please,’ and put the clerk into such a stew 
that he would not know how to get rid of me. When 
I’d finished and had gone out, I’d come back, ‘no, 
“excuse me,’ and ask for some explanation. That’s how I’d 
do it.” 

“Foo, what terrible things you say!’ said Zametov, laugh- 
ing. “But all that is only talk. I dare say when it came to 
deeds you’d make a slip. I believe that even a practised, 
desperate man cannot always reckon on himself, much less 
you and I. To take an example near home—that old woman 
murdered in our district. The murderer seems to have been 
a desperate fellow, he risked everything in open daylight, 
was saved by a miracle—but his hands shook, too. He did 
not succeed in robbing the place, he couldn’t stand it. That 
was clear from the...” 

Raskolnikov seemed offended. 

“Clear? Why don’t you catch him then?” he cried, 
maliciously gibing at Zametov. 

“Well, they will catch him.” 


“Who? You? Do you suppose you could catch him? 
You’ve a tough job! A great point for you is whether a 
man is spending money or not. If he had no money and 
suddenly begins spending, he must be the man. So that any 
child can mislead you.” 

“The fact is they always do that, though,” answered Zame- 
tov. “A man will commit a clever murder at the risk of his 
life and then at once he goes drinking in a tavern. They 
are caught spending money, they are not all as cunning as 
you are. You wouldn’t go to a tavern, of course!” 

Raskolnikov frowned and looked steadily at Zametov. 

“You seem to enjoy the subject and would like to know 
how I should behave in that case, too?” he asked with dis- 

“I should like to,” Zametov answered firmly and seriously. 
Somewhat too much earnestness began to appear in his 
words and looks. 

“Very much?” 

“Very much!” 

“All right then. This is how I should behave,” Ras- 
kolnikov began, again bringing his face close to Zametov’s, 
again staring at him and speaking in a whisper, so that the 
latter positively shuddered. “This is what I should have 
done. I should have taken the money and jewels, I should 
have walked out of there and have gone straight to some 
deserted place with fences round it and scarcely any one to 
be seen, some kitchen garden or place of that sort. I should 
have looked out beforehand some stone weighing a hun- 
dredweight or more which had been lying in the corner from 
the time the house was built. I would lift that stone—there 
would sure to be a hollow under it, and I would put the 
jewels and money in that hole. Then I’d roll the stone back 
so that it would look as before, would press it down with my 
foot and walk away. And for a year or two, three maybe, 
I would not touch it. And, well, they could search! There’d 
be no trace.” 

“You are a madman,” said Zametov, and for some reason 
he too spoke in a whisper, and moved away from Ras- 
kolnikov, whose eyes were glittering. He had turned fear- 
fully pale and his upper lip was twitching and quivering. 


He bent down as close as possible to Zametov, and his lips 
began to move without uttering a word. This lasted for 
half a minute; he knew what he was doing, but could not 
restrain himself. The terrible word trembled on his lips, 
like the latch on that door; in another moment it will 
break out, in another moment he will let it go, he will speak 

“And what if it was I who murdered the old woman and 
Lizaveta?” he said suddenly and—realised what he had done. 

Zametov looked wildly at him and turned white as the 
tablecloth. His face wore a contorted smile. : 

“But is it possible?” he brought out faintly. Raskolnikov 
looked wrathfully at him. / 

“Own up that you believed it, yes, you did?” 

“Not a bit of it, I believe it less than ever now,” Zametov 
cried hastily. 

“I’ve caught my cocksparrow! So you did believe it 
before, if now you believe it less than ever?” 

“Not at all,” cried Zametov, obviously embarrassed. “Have 
you been frightening me so as to lead up to this?” 

“You don’t believe it then? What were you talking about 
behind my back when I went out of the police-office? And 
why did the explosive lieutenant question me after I fainted? 
Hey, there,” he shouted to the waiter, getting up and taking 
- his cap “how much?” 

“Thirty copecks,” the latter replied, running up. 

“And here is twenty copecks for vodka. See what a lot of 
money !” he held out his shaking hand to Zametov with notes 
in it. “Red notes and blue, twenty-five roubles. Where did 
I get them? And where did my new clothes come from? 
You know I had not a copeck. You’ve cross-examined my 
landlady, T’ll be bound. ... Well, that’s enough! Assez 
causé! ‘Till we meet again!” 

He went out, trembling all over from a sort of wild hys- 
terical sensation, in which there was an element of insuf- 
ferable rapture. Yet he was gloomy and terribly tired. His 
face was twisted as after a fit. His fatigue increased 
rapidly. Any shock, any irritating sensation stimulated and 
revived his energies at once, but his strength failed as 
quickly when the stimulus was removed. 

mee a he i ee A a ee at 


Zametov, left alone, sat for a long time in the same place, 
plunged in thought. Raskolnikov had unwittingly worked a 
revolution in his brain on a certain point and had made up 
his mind for him conclusively. 

“Ilya Petrovitch is a blockhead,” he decided. 

Raskolnikov had hardly opened the door of the restaurant 
when he stumbled against Razumihin on the steps. They 
did not see each other till they almost knocked against each 
other. For a moment they stood looking each other up and 
down. Razumihin was greatly astounded, then anger, real 
anger gleamed fiercely in his eyes. 

“So here you are!” he shouted at the top of his voice— 
“you ran away from your bed! And here I’ve been looking 
for you under the sofa! We went up to the garret. I 
almost beat Nastasya on your account. And here he is after 
all. Rodya! What is the meaning of it? Tell me the whole 
truth! Confess! Do you hear?” 

“Tt means that I’m sick to death of you all and I want to 
be alone,” Raskolnikov answered calmly. 

“Alone? When you are not able to walk, when your face 
is as white as a sheet and you are gasping for breath! Idiot! 
. ... What have you been doing in the Palais de Crystal? 
Own up at once!” 

“Let me go!” said Raskolnikov and tried to pass him. 
This was too much for Razumihin; he gripped him firmly 
by the shoulder. 

“Let you go? You dare tell me to let you go? Do you 
know what I'll do with you directly? I'll pick you up, tie 
you up in a bundle, carry you home under my arm and lock 
you up!” 

“Listen, Razumihin,” Raskolnikov began quietly, appar- 
ently calm—‘“can’t you see that I don’t want your benevo- 
lence? A strange desire you have to shower benefits on a 
man who... curses them, who feels them a burden in fact! 
Why did you seek me out at the beginning of my illness? 
Maybe I was very glad to die. Didn’t I tell you plainly 
enough to-day that you were torturing me, that I was... 
sick of you! You seem to want to torture people! I assure 
you that all that is seriously hindering my recovery, because 
it’s continually irritating me. You saw Zossimov went away 



just now to avoid irritating me. You leave me alone too, for 
goodness’ sake! What right have you, indeed, to keep me by 
force? Don’t you see that I am in possession of all my 
faculties now? How, how can I persuade you not to perse- 
cute me with your kindness? I may be ungrateful, I may 
be mean, only let me be, for God’s sake, let me be! Let 
me be, let me be!” 

He began calmly, gloating beforehand over the venomous 
phrases he was about to utter, but finished, panting for 
breath, in a frenzy, as he kad been with Luzhin. 7 

Razumihin stood a moment, thought and let his hand drop, 

“Well, go to hell then,” he said gently and thoughtfully. 
“Stay,” he roared, as Raskolnikov was about to move. “Listen 
to me. Let me tell you, that you are all a set of babbling, 
posing idiots! If you’ve any little trouble you brood over 
it like a hen over an egg. And you are plagiarists even in 
that! There isn’t a sign of independent life in you! You 
are made of spermaceti ointment and you’ve lymph in your 
veins instead of blood. I don’t believe in any one of you! 
In any circumstances the first thing for all of you is to be 
unlike a human being! Stop!” he cried with redoubled fury, 
noticing that Raskolnikov was again making a movement— 
“hear me out! You know I’m having a house-warming this 
evening, I dare say they’ve arrived by now, but I left my 
uncle there—I just ran in—to receive the guests. And if you 
weren't a fool, a common fool, a perfect fool, if you were 
an original instead of a translation ... you see, Rodya, I 
recognise you’re a clever fellow, but you’re a fool!—and if 
you weren’t a fool you’d come round to me this evening 
instead of wearing out your boots in the street! Since you 
have gone out, there’s no help for it! I’d give you a snug 
easy chair, my landlady has one...a cup of tea, com- 
pany. ... Or you could lie on the sofa—any way you would 
be with us. ... Zossimov will be there too. Will you 


“R-rubbish!” Razumihin shouted, out of patience. “How 
do you knew? You can’t answer for yourself! You 
don’t know anything about it... . Thousands of times I’ve 
fought tooth and nail with people and ran back to them 


afterwards. ... One feels ashamed and goes back to a 
man! So remember, Potchinkov’s house on the third 
5 Ce Oe 

“Why, Mr. Razumihin, I do believe you’d let anybody beat 
you from sheer benevolence.” 

“Beat? Whom? Me? I’d twist his nose off at the mere 
idea! Potchinkov’s house, 47, Babushkin’s flat... .” 

“TI shall not come, Razumihin.” Raskolnikov turned and 
walked away. 

“I bet you will,’ Razumihin shouted after him. “I re- 
fuse to know you if you don’t! Stay, hey, is Zametov in 


“Did you see him?” 

&V es.”” 

“Talked to him?” 


“What about? Confound you, don’t tell me then. Potch- 
inkov’s house, 47, Babushkin’s flat, remember !” 

Raskolnikov walked on and turned the corner into Sadovy 
Street. Razumihin looked after him thoughtfully. Then with 
a wave of his hand he went into the house but stopped short 
on the stairs. 

“Confound it,’ he went on almost aloud. “He talked 
sensibly but yet ...Iama fool! As if madmen didn’t talk 
sensibly! And this was just what Zossimov seemed afraid 
of.” He struck his finger on his forehead. What if... 
how could I let him go off alone? He may drown himself. 
.. - Ach, what a blunder! I can’t.” And he ran back to 
overtake Raskolnikov, but there was no trace of him. With 
a curse he returned with rapid steps to the Palais de Crystal 
to question Zametov. 

Raskolnikov walked straight to X——— Bridge, stood in the 
middle, and leaning both elbows on the rail stared into the 
distance. On parting with Razumihin, he felt so much 
weaker that he could scarcely reach this place. He longed 
to sit or lie down somewhere in the street. Bending over 
the water, he gazed mechanically at the last pink flush of 
the sunset, at the row of houses growing dark in the gather- 
ing twilight, at one distant attic window on the left bank, 


flashing as though on fire in the last rays of the setting sun, 
at the darkening water of the canal, and the water seemed 
to catch his attention. At last red circles flashed before his 
eyes, the houses seemed moving, the passers-by, the canal 
banks, the carriages, all danced before his eyes. Suddenly 
he started, saved again perhaps from swooning by an un- 
canny and hideous sight. He became aware of some one 
standing on the right side of him; he looked and saw a tall 
woman with a kerchief on her head, with a long, yellow, 
wasted face and red sunken eyes. She was looking straight 
at him, but obviously she saw nothing and recognised no one. 
Suddenly she leaned her right hand on the parapet, lifted her 
right leg over the railing, then her left and threw herself into 
the canal. The filthy water parted and swallowed up its 
victim for a moment, but an instant later the drowning 
woman floated to the surface, moving slowly with the cur- 
rent, her head and legs in the water, her skirt inflated like a 
balloon over back. 

“A woman drowning! A woman drowning!’ shouted 
dozens of voices; people ran up, both banks were thronged 
with spectators, on the bridge people crowded about Raskol- 
nikov, pressing up behind him. 

“Mercy on us! it’s our Afrosinya!” a woman cried tear- 
fully close by. “Mercy! save her! kind people, pull her out!” 

“A boat, a boat!” was shouted in the crowd. But there 
was no need of a boat; a policeman ran down the steps to the 
canal, threw off his great coat and his boots and rushed into 
the water. It was easy to reach her: she floated within a 
couple of yards from the steps, he caught hold of her clothes 
with his right hand and with his left seized a pole which a 
comrade held out to him; the drowning woman was pulled © 
out at once. They laid her on the granite pavement of the 
embankment. She soon recovered consciousness, raised her 
head, sat up and began sneezing and coughing, stupidly wip- 
ing her wet dress with her hands. She said nothing. 

“She’s drunk herself out of her senses,” the same woman’s 
voice wailed at her side. “Out of her senses. The other day » 
she tried to hang herself, we cut her down. I ran out to the 
shop just now, left my little girl to look after her—and here 
she’s in trouble again! A neighbour, gentleman, a neighbour, 



we live close by, the second house from the end, see 
wonder. 29." 

The crowd broke up, the police still remained round the 
woman, some one mentioned the police station. . . . Raskol- 
nikov looked on with a strange sensation of indifference and 
apathy. He felt disgusted. “No, that’s loathsome . . . water 

. it’s not good enough,” he muttered to himself. “Nothing 
will come of it,” he added, “no use to wait. What about the 
police office ... ? And why isn’t Zametov at the police 
office? The police office is open till ten o’clock....” He 
turned his back to the railing and looked about him. 

“Very well then!” he said resolutely; he moved from the 
bridge and walked in the direction of the police office. His 
heart felt hollow and empty. He did not want to think. 
Even his depression had passed, there was not a trace now 
of the energy with which he had set out “to make an end of 
it all.’ Complete apathy succeeded to it. 

“Well, it’s a way out of it,’ he thought, walking slowly 
and listlessly along the canal bank. “Anyway I’ll make an 
end, for I want to.... But is it a way out? What does 
it matter! There’ll be the square yard of space—ha! But 
what an end! Is it really the end? Shall I tell them or not? 
Ah ...damn! How tired I am! If I could find some- 
where to sit or lie down soon! What I am most ashamed of 
is its being so stupid. But I don’t care about that either! 
What idiotic ideas come into one’s head.” 

To reach the police-office he had to go straight forward 
and take the second turning to the left. It was only a few 
paces away. But at the first turning he stopped and, after a 
minute’s thought, turned into a side street and went two 
streets out of his way, possibly without any object, or pos- 
sibly to delay a minute and gain time. He walked, looking 
at the ground; suddenly some one seemed to whisper in his 
ear; he lifted his head and saw that he was standing at the 
very gate of the house. He had not passed it, he had not 
been near it since that evening. An overwhelming, unac- 
countable prompting drew him on. He went into the house, 
passed through the gateway, then into the first entrance on 
the right, and began mounting the familiar staircase to the 
fourth storey. The narrow, steep staircase was very dark. 


He stopped at each landing and looked round him with 
curiosity; on the first landing the framework of the window 
had been taken out. ‘That wasn’t so then,” he thought. 
Here was the flat on the second storey where Nikolay and 
Dmitri had been working. “It’s shut up and the door newly 
painted. So it’s to let.’ Then the third storey and the 
fourth. “Here!” He was perplexed to find the door of the 
flat wide open. There were men there, he could hear voices; 
/he had not expected that. After brief hesitation he mounted 
the last stairs and went into the flat. It, too, was being done 
up; there were workmen in it. This seemed to amaze him; 
he somehow fancied that he would find everything as he 
left it, even perhaps the corpses in the same places on 
the floor. And now, bare wails, no furniture; it seemed 

He walked to the window and sat down on the window sill. 
There were two workmen, both young fellows, but one much 
younger the other. They were papering the walls with a new 
white paper covered with lilac flowers, instead of the old, 
dirty, yellow one. Raskolnikov for some reason felt horribly 
annoyed by this. He looked at the new paper with dislike, 
as though he felt sorry to have it all so changed. The 
workmen had obviously stayed beyond their time and now 
- they were hurriedly rolling up their paper and getting ready 
to go home. They took no notice of Raskolnikov’s coming 
in; they were talking. . Raskolnikov folded his arms and 
listened. } 

“She comes to me in the morning,” said the elder to the 
younger, “very early, all dressed up. ‘Why are you preen- 
ing and prinking?’ says I. ‘I am ready to do anything to 
please you, Tit Vassilitch!’ That’s a way of going on! And 
she dressed up a regular fashion book!’ 

“And what is a fashion book?” the younger one asked. 
He obviously regarded the other as an authority. 

“A fashion book is a lot of pictures, coloured, and they 
come to the tailors here every Sunday, by post from abroad, 
to show folks how to dress, the male sex as well as the 
female. They’re pictures. The gentlemen are generally 
wearing fur coats and as for the ladies’ fluffles, they’re 
beyond anything you can fancy.” 


“There’s nothing you can’t find in Petersburg,” the 
younger cried enthusiastically, “except father and mother, 
there’s everything !” 

“Except them, there’s everything to be found, my boy,” 
the elder declared sententiously. 

Raskolnikov got up and walked into the other room where 
the strong box, the bed, and the chest of drawers had been; 
the room seemed to him very tiny without furniture in it. 
The paper was the same; the paper in the corner showed 
where the case of ikons had stood. He looked at it and went 
to the window. The elder workman looked at him askance. 

“What do you want?” he asked suddenly. 

Instead of answering Raskolnikov went into the passage 
and pulled the bell. The same bell, the same cracked note 
He rang it a second and a third time; he listened and re- 
membered. The hideous and agonisingly fearful sensation 
he had felt then began to come back more and more vividly. 
He shuddered at every ring and it gave him more and more 

“Well, what do you want? Who are you?” the workman 
shouted, going out to him. Raskolnikov went inside again. 
“T want to take a flat,” he said. “I am looking round.” 

“It’s not the time to look at rooms at night; and you ought 
to come up with the porter.” 

“The floors have been washed, will they be painted?” 
Raskolnikov went on. “Is there no blood?” 

“What blood ?” 

“Why, the old woman and her sister were murdered here, 
There was a perfect pool there.” 

“But who are you?” the workman cried, uneasy. 

“Who am I?” 


“You want to know? Come to the police station, I’ll tel: 

The workmen looked at him in amazement. 

“It’s time for us to go, we are late. Come along, Alyoshka. 
We must lock up,” said the elder workman. 

“Very well, come along,” said Raskolnikov indifferently, 
and going out first, he went slowly downstairs. “Hey, 
porter,” he cried in the gateway. 


At the entrance several people were standing, staring at 
the passers-by; the two porters, a peasant woman, a man in 
a long coat and a few others. Raskolnikov went straight up 
to them. 

“What do you want?” asked one of the porters. 

“Have you been to the police-office?” 

“I’ve just been there. What do you want?” 

“Is it open?” 

“Of course.” | 

“Is the assistant there?” 

“He was there for a time. What do you want?” 

Raskolnikov made no reply, but stood beside them lost in 
thought. ‘ 

“He’s been to look at the flat,” said the elder workman, 
coming forward. 

“Which flat?” 

“Where we are at work. ‘Why have you washed away 
the blood?’ says he. ‘There has been a murder here,’ says 
he and ‘I’ve come to take it.’ And he began ringing at the 
bell, all but broke it. ‘Come to the police station,’ says he, 
‘T’ll tell you everything there.’ He wouldn’t leave us.” 

The porter looked at Raskolnikov, frowning and perplexed. 

“Who are you?” he shouted as impressively as he could. 
“Tf am Rodion Romanovitch Raskolnikov, formerly a stu- 

dent, I live in Shil’s house, not far from here, flat Number 
14, ask the porter, he knows me.” Raskolnikov said all this 
in a lazy, dreamy voice, not turning round, but looking in- 
tently into the darkening street. 

“Why have you been to the flat?” 

“To look at it.” 

“What is there to look at?” 

“Take him straight to the police station,” the man in the 
long coat jerked in abruptly. 

Raskolnikov looked intently at him over his shoulder and 
said in the same slow, lazy tone: 

“Come along.” 

“Yes, take him,” the man went on more confidently. “Why 
was he going into that, what’s in his mind, eh?” 

“He’s not drunk, but God knows what’s the matter with 
him,” muttered the workman. 


“But what do you want?” the porter shouted again, be- 
ginning to get angry in earnest—“Why are you hanging 
about ?” 

“You funk the police station then?” said Raskolnikov 

“How funk it? Why are you hanging about?” 

“He’s a rogue!” shouted the peasant woman. 

“Why waste time talking to him?” cried the other porter, 
a huge peasant in a full open coat and with keys on his belt. 
“Get along! He is a rogue and no mistake. Get along!” 

And seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder he flung him into 
the street. He lurched forward, but recovered his footing, 
looked at the spectators in silence and walked away. 

“Strange man!” observed the workman. 

“There are strange folks about nowadays,” said the woman. 

“You should have taken him to the police station all the 
same,” said the man in the long coat. 

“Better have nothing to do with him,” decided the big 
porter. “A regular rogue! Just what he wants, you may 
be sure, but once take him up, you won’t get rid of him... . 
We know the sort!” 

“Shall I go there or not?” thought Raskolnikov, standing 
in the middle of the thoroughfare at the cross roads, and 
he looked about him, as though expecting from some one a 
decisive word. But no sound came, all was dead and silent 
like the stones on which he walked, dead to him, to him 
alone. . .. All at once at the end of the street, two hundred 
yards away, in the gathering dusk he saw a crowd and 
heard talk and shouts. In the middle of the crowd stood 
a carriage. ... A light gleamed in the middle of the street. 
“What is it?” Raskolnikov turned to the right and went up 
to the crowd. He seemed to clutch at everything and smiled 
coldly when he recognised it, for he had fully made up his 
mind to go to the police station and knew that it would 
all soon be over. 


N elegant carriage stood in the middle of the road with 

a pair of spirited grey horses; there was no one in it, 

and the coachman had got off his box and stood by; 

the horses were being held by the bridle. . . . A mass of peo- 

ple had gathered round, the police standing in front. One of 

them held a lighted lantern which he was turning on some- 

thing lying close to the wheels. Every one was talking, 

shouting, exclaiming; the coachman seemed at a loss and 
kept repeating: 

“What a misfortune! Good Lord, what a misfortune!” 

Raskolnikov pushed his way in as far as he could, and 
succeeded at last in seeing the object of the commotion and 
interest. On the ground a man who had been run over lay 
apparently unconscious, and covered with blood; he was very 
badly dressed, but not like a workman. Blood was flowing 
from his head and face; his face was crushed, mutilated and 
disfigured. He was evidently badly injured. 

“Merciful heaven!” wailed the coachman, “what more 
could I do? If I’d been driving fast or had not shouted to 
him, but I was going quietly, not in a hurry. Every one 
could see I was going along just like everybody else. A 
drunken man can’t walk straight, we all know. ...I saw 
him crossing the street, staggering and almost falling. I 
shouted again and a second and a third time, then I held the 
horses in, but he fell straight under their feet! Either he 
did it on purpose or he was very tipsy. . . . The horses are 
young and ready to take fright... they started, he 
screamed ... that made them worse. That’s how it hap- 
pened !” 

“That’s just how it was,” a voice in the crowd con- 

“He shouted, that’s true, he shouted three times,” another 
voice declared. 

“Three times it was, we all heard it,” shouted a third. 


Se ee ee ee ae ee 

te i 


a Se ne 


But the coachman was not very much distressed and 
frightened. It was evident that the carriage belonged to a 
rich and important person who was awaiting it somewhere; 
the police, of course, were in no little anxiety to avoid upset- 
ting his arrangements. All they had to do was to take the 
injured man to the police station and the hospital. No one 
knew his name. 

Meanwhile Raskolnikov had squeezed in and stooped closer 
over him. The lantern suddenly lighted up the unfortunate 
man’s face. He recognised him. 

“I know him! I know him!” he shouted, pushing to the 
front. “It’s a government clerk retired from the service, 
Marmeladov. He lives close by in Kozel’s house. . . . Make 
haste for a doctor! I will pay, see.’ He pulled money out 
of his pocket and showed it to the policeman. He was in 
violent agitation. 

The police were glad that they had found out who the man 
was. Raskolnikov gave his own name and address, and, as 
earnestly as if it had been his father, he besought the police 
to carry the unconscious Marmeladov to his lodging at once. 

“Just here, three houses away,” he said eagerly, “the house 
belongs to Kozel, a rich German. He was going home, no 
doubt drunk. I know him, he is a drunkard. He has a family 
there, a wife, children, he has one daughter. . . . It will take 
time to take him to the hospital, and there is sure to be a 
doctor in the house. I’ll pay, I’ll pay! At least he will be 
looked after at home... they will help him at once. But 
he'll die before you get him to the hospital.” He managed to 
slip something unseen into the policeman’s hand. But the 
thing was straightforward and legitimate, and in any case 
help was closer here. They raised the injured man; people 
volunteered to help. 

Kozel’s house was thirty yards away. Raskolnikov walked 
behind, carefully holding Marmeladov’s head and showing 
the way. 

“This way, this way! We must take him upstairs head 
foremost. Turn round! Ill pay, I’ll make it worth your 
while,” he muttered. 

Katerina Ivanovna had just begun, as she always did at 
every free moment, walking to and fro in her little room 


from window to stove and back again, with her arms folded 
across her chest, talking to herself and coughing. Of late 
she had begun to talk more than ever to her eldest girl, 
Polenka, a child of ten, who, though there was much she did 
not understand, understood very well that her mother needed 
her, and so always watched her with her big clever eyes and 
strove her utmost to appear to understand. This time 
Polenka was undressing her little brother, who had been 
unwell all day and was going to bed. The boy was waiting 
for her to take off his shirt, which had to be washed at 
night. He was sitting straight and motionless on a chair, 
with a silent, serious face, with his legs stretched out straight 
before him—heels together and toes turned out. f 

He was listening to what his mother was saying to his 
sister, sitting perfectly still with pouting lips and wide-open 
eyes, just as all good little boys have to sit when they are 
undressed to go to bed. A little girl, still younger, dressed 
literally in rags, stood at the screen, waiting for her turn. 
The door on to the stairs was open to relieve them a little 
from the clouds of tobacco smoke which floated in from the 
other rooms and brought on long terrible fits of coughing 
in the poor, consumptive woman. Katerina Ivanovna seemed 
to have grown even thinner during that week and the heavy 
flush on her face was brighter than ever. 

“You wouldn’t believe, you can’t imagine, Polenka,” she 
said, walking about the room, “what a happy luxurious life 
we had in my papa’s house and how this drunkard has 
brought me, and will bring you all, to ruin! Papa was a 
civil colonel and only a step from being a governor; so that 
every one who came to see him said ‘We look upon you, 
Ivan Mihailovitch, as our governor!’ When I... when 
...” she coughed violently, “Oh, cursed life,” she cried, 
clearing her throat and pressing her hands to her breast, 
“when I... when at the last ball... at the marshal’s 
» - » Princess Bezzemelny saw me—who gave me the bless- 
ing when your father and I were married, Polenka—she 
asked at once ‘Isn’t that the pretty girl who danced the shawl 
dance at the breaking up.’ (You must mend that tear, you 
must take your needle and darn it as I showed you, or tomor- 
row—cough, cough, cough—he will make the hole bigger,” 

peSarias eet a 


she articulated with effort.) “Prince Schegolskoy, a kam- 
merjunker, had just come from Petersburg then... he 
danced the mazurka with me and wanted to make me an offer 
next day; but I thanked him in flattering expressions and 
told him that my heart had long been another’s. That other 
was your father, Polya; papa was fearfully angry.... 
Is the water ready? Give me the shirt, and the stockings! 
Lida,” said she to the youngest one, “you must manage with- 
out your chemise to-night ... and lay your stockings out 
with it... Tl wash them together. ... How is it that 
drunken vagabond doesn’t come in? He has worn his shirt 
till it looks like a dishclout, he has torn it to rags! I’d do 
it all together, so as not to have to work two nights running! 
Oh, dear! (Cough, cough, cough, cough!) Again! What’s 
this?” she cried, noticing a crowd in the passage and the 
men who were pushing into her room, carrying a burden. 
“What is it? What are they bringing? Mercy on us!” 

“Where are we to put him?” asked the policeman, looking 
round when Marmeladov, unconscious and covered with 
blood, had been carried in. 

“On the sofa! Put him straight on the sofa, with his 
head this way,” Raskolnikov showed him. 

“Run over in the road! Drunk!” some one shouted in the 

Katerina Ivanovna stood, turning white and gasping for 
breath. The children were terrified. Little Lida screamed, 
rushed to Polenka and clutched at her, trembling all over. 

Having laid Marmeladov down, Raskolnikov flew to 

Katerina Ivanovna. 

“For God’s sake be calm, don’t be frightened!” he said, 
speaking quickly, “he was crossing the road and was run 
over by a carriage, don’t be frightened, he will come to, I 
told them to bring him here .... I’ve been here already, 
you remember? He will come to; I’ll pay!” 

“He’s done it this time!” Katerina Ivanovna cried despair- 
ingly and she rushed to her husband, 

Raskolnikov noticed at once that she was not one of those 
women who swoon easily. She instantly placed under the 
luckless man’s head a pillow, which no one had thought of 
and began undressing and examining him. She kept her 


head, forgetting herself, biting her trembling lips and stifling 
the screams which were ready to break from her. 

Raskolnikov meanwhile induced some one to run for a 
doctor There was a doctor, it appeared, next door but one. 

“T’ve sent for a doctor,” he kept assuring Katerina 
Ivanovna “don’t be uneasy, [ll pay. Haven’t you water? 
... and give me a napkin or a towel, anything, as quick as 
you can. ... He is injured, but not killed, believe me. ... 
We shall see what the doctor says!” | 

Katerina Ivanovna ran to the window; there, on a broken 
chair in the corner, a large earthenware basin full of water 
had been stood, in readiness for washing her children’s and 
husband’s linen that night. This washing was done by 
Katerina Ivanovna at night at least twice a week, if not 
oftener. For the family had come to such a pass that they 
were practically without change of linen, and Katerina 
Ivanovna could not endure uncleanliness and, rather than see 
dirt in the house, she preferred to wear herself out at night, 
working beyond her strength when the rest were asleep, so 
as to get the wet linen hung on a line and dry by the morning. 
She took up the basin of water at Raskolnikov’s request, but 
almost fell down with her burden. But the latter had already 
succeeded in finding a towel, wetted it and begun washing 
the blood off Marmeladov’s face. 

Katerina Ivanovna stood by, breathing painfully and 
pressing her hands to her breast. She was in need of atten- 
tion herself. Raskolnikov began to realise that he might 
have made a mistake in having the injured man brought here. 
The policeman, too, stood in hesitation. 

“Polenka,” cried Katerina Ivanovna, “run to Sonia, make 
haste. If you don’t find her at home, leave word that her 
father has been run over and that she is to come here at 
once ... when she comes in. Run, Polenka! there, put on 
the shawl.” 

“Run your fastest!” cried the little boy on the chair sud- 
denly, after which he relapsed into the same dumb rigidity, 
with round eyes, his heels thrust forward and his toes spread 

Meanwhile the room had become so full of people that you 
couldn’t have dropped a pin. The policemen left, all except 

9) . 


one, who remained for a time, trying to drive out the people 
who came in from the stairs. Almost all Madame Lippevech- 
sel’s lodgers had streamed in from the inner rooms of the 
flat; at first they were squeezed together in the doorway, 
but afterwards they overflowed into the room. Katerina 
Ivanovna flew into a fury. . 

“You might let him die in peace, at least,” she shouted at 
the crowd, “is it a spectacle for you to gape at? With 
cigarettes! (Cough, cough, cough!) You might as well 
keep your hats on.... And there is one in his hat!... 
Get away! You should respect the dead, at least!” 

Her cough choked her—but her reproaches were not with- 
out result. They evidently stood in some awe of Katerina 
Ivanovna. The lodgers, one after another, squeezed back 
into the doorway with that strange inner feeling of satisfac- 
tion which may be observed in the presence of a sudden acci- 
dent, even in those nearest and dearest to the victim, from 
which no living man is exempt, even in spite of the sincerest 
sympathy and compassion. 

Voices outside were heard, however, speaking of the 
hospital and saying that they’d no business to make a dis- 
turbance here. 

“No business to die!” cried Katerina Ivanovna, and she 
was rushing to the door to vent her wrath upon them, but 
in the doorway came face to face with Madame Lippevech- 
sel who had only just heard of the accident and ran in to 
restore order. She was a particularly quarrelsome and irre- 
sponsible German. 

“Ah, my God!” she cried, clasping her hands, “your hus- 
band drunken horses have trampled! To the hospital with 
him! I am the landlady !” 

“Amalia Ludwigovna, I beg you to recollect what you are 
saying,” Katerina Ivanovna began haughtily (she always 
took a haughty tone with the landlady that she might “re- 
member her place” and even now could not deny herself this 
satisfaction). “Amalia Ludwigovna .. .” 

“I have you once before told that you to call me Amalia 
Ludwigovna may not dare; I am Amalia Ivanovna.” 

“You are not Amalia Ivanoyna, but Amalia Ludwigovna, 
and as I am not one of your despicable flatterers like Mr. 



Lebeziatnikov, who’s laughing behind the door at this moment 
(a laugh and a cry of ‘they are at it again’ was in fact 
audible at the door) so I shall always call you Amalia 
Ludwigovna, though I fail to understand why you dislike 
that name. You can see for yourself what has happened to 
Semyon Zaharovitch; he is dying. I beg you to close that 
door at once and to admit no one. Let him at least die in 
peace. Or I warn you the Governor-General, himself, shall 
be informed of your conduct to-morrow. The prince knew 
me as a girl; he remembers Semyon Zaharovitch well and 
has often been a benefactor to him. Every one knows that 
Semyon Zaharovitch had many friends and _ protectors, 
whom he abandoned himself from an honourable pridey 
knowing his unhappy weakness, but now (she pointed to 
Raskolnikov) a generous young man has come to our assist- 
ance, who has wealth and connections and whom Semyon 
Zaharovitch has known from a child. You may rest as- 
sured, Amalia Ludwigovna.. .” 

All this was uttered with extreme rapidity, getting quicker 
and quicker, but a cough suddenly cut short Katerina Ivan- 
ovna’s eloquence. At that instant the dying man recovered 
consciousness and uttered a groan; she ran to him. The in- 
jured man opened his eyes and without recognition or under- 
standing gazed at Raskolnikov who was bending over him. 
He drew deep, slow, painful breaths; blood oozed at the cor- 
ners of his mouth and drops of perspiration came out on his 
forehead. Not recognising Raskolnikov, he began looking 
round uneasily. Katerina Ivanovna looked at him with a 
sad but stern face, and tears trickled from her eyes. 

“My God! His whole chest is crushed! How he is bleed- 
ing,” she said in despair. “We must take off his clothes. 
Turn a little, Semyon Zaharovitch, if you can,” she cried to 

Marmeladov recognised her. 

“A priest,” he articulated huskily. 

Katerina Ivanovna walked to the window, laid her head 
against the window frame and exclaimed in despair: 

“Oh, cursed life!” 

“A priest,” the dying man said again after a moment’s 


“They've gone for him,” Katerina Ivanovna shouted to 
him; he obeyed her shout and was silent. With sad and 
timid eyes he looked for her; she returned and stood by his 
pillow. He seemed a little easier, but not for long. 

Soon his eyes rested on little Lida, his favourite, who was 
shaking in the corner, as though she were in a fit, and staring 
at him with her wondering childish eyes. 

“A—ah,” he signed towards her uneasily. He wanted to 
say something. 

“What now?” cried Katerina Ivanovna. 

“Barefoot, barefoot !” he muttered, indicating with frenzied 
eyes the child’s bare feet. 

“Be silent,” Katerina Ivanovna cried irritably, “you know 
why she is barefooted.” 

“Thank God, the doctor,” exclaimed Raskolnikov, relieved. 
The doctor came in, a precise little old man, a German, look- 
ing about him mistrustfully; he went up to the sick man, 
took his pulse, carefully felt his head and with the help of 
Katerina Ivanovna he unbuttoned the blood-stained shirt, 
and bared the injured man’s chest. It was gashed, crushed 
and fractured, several ribs on the right side were broken. 
On the left side, just over the heart, was a large, sinister- 
looking yellowish-black bruise—a cruel kick from the horse’s 
hoof. The doctor frowned. The policeman told him that he 
was caught in the wheel and turned round with it for thirty 
yards on the road. 

“Tt’s wonderful that he has recovered consciousness,” the 
doctor whispered softly to Raskolnikov. 

“What do you think of him?” he asked. 

“He will die immediately.” 

“Ts there really no hope?” 

“Not the faintest! He is at the last gasp . . . His head is 
badly injured, too... Hm...I could bleed him if you 
like, but . . . it would be useless. He is bound to die within 
the next five or ten minutes.” 

“Better bleed him then.” 

“Tf you like. ... But I warn you it will be perfectly 

At that moment other steps were heard; the crowd in the 
passage parted, and the priest, a little, grey old man, appeared 

in the doorway bearing the sacrament. A policeman had 
gone for him at the time of the accident. The doctor 
changed places with him, exchanging glances with him. 
Raskolnikov begged the doctor to remain a little while. He 
shrugged his shoulders and remained. 

All stepped back. The confession was soon over. The 
dying man probably understood little; he could only utter 
indistinct broken sounds. Katerina Ivanovna took little Lida, 
lifted the boy from the chair, knelt down in the corner by the 
stove and made the children kneel in front of her. The little 
girl was still trembling; but the boy, kneeling on his little 
bare knees, lifted his hand rhythmically, crossing himself 
with precision and bowed down, touching the door with his. 
forehead, which seemed to afford him especial satisfaction. 
Katerina Ivanovna bit her lips and held back her tears; she 
prayed, too, now and then pulling straight the boy’s shirt, 
and managed to cover the girl’s bare shoulders with a ker- 
chief, which she took from the chest without rising from her 
knees or ceasing to pray. Meanwhile the door from the inner 
rooms was opened inquisitively again. In the passage the 
crowd of spectators from all the flats on the staircase grew 
denser and denser, but they did not venture beyond the 
threshold. A single candle-end lighted up the scene. 

At that moment Polenka forced her way through the crowd 
at the door. She came in panting from running so fast, took 
off her kerchief, looked for her mother, went up to her and 
said, “She’s coming, I met her in the street.” Her mother 
made her kneel beside her. 

Timidly and noiselessly a young girl made her way through 
the crowd, and strange was her appearance in that room, in 
the midst of want, rags, death and despair. She, too, was 
in rags, her attire was all of the cheapest, but decked out 
in gutter finery of a special stamp, unmistakably betraying its 
shameful purpose. Sonia stopped short in the doorway and 
looked about her bewildered, unconscious of everything. She 
forgot her fourth-hand, gaudy silk dress, so unseemly here 
with its ridiculous long train, and her immense crinoline that 
filled up the whole doorway, and her light-coloured shoes, and 
the parasol she brought with her, though it was no use at 
night, and the absurd round straw hat with its flaring flame- 

ee ee ee ee 

eo ee ee 

he a 

ee eee ee 



coloured feather. Under this rakishly-tilted hat was a pale, 
frightened little face with lips parted and eyes staring in 
terror. Sonia was a small thin girl of eighteen with fair hair, 
rather pretty, with wonderful blue eyes. She looked intently 
at the bed and the priest; she too was out of breath with 
running. At last whispers, some words in the crowd probably, 
reached her. She looked down and took a step forward into 
the room, still keeping close to the door. 

The service was over. Katerina [vanovna went up to her 
husband again. The priest stepped back and turned to say a 
few words of admonition and consolation to Katerina Ivan- 
ovna on leaving. 

“What am I to do with these?” she interrupted sharply and 
irritably, pointing to the little ones. 

“God is merciful; look to the Most High for succor,” the 
priest began. 

“Ach! He is merciful, but not to us.” 

“That’s a sin, a sin, madam,” observed the priest, shaking 
his head. 

“And isn’t that a sin?” cried Katerina Ivanovna, pointing 
to the dying man. 

“Perhaps those who have involuntarily caused the accident 
will agree to compensate you, at least for the loss of his 

“You don’t understand!” cried Katerina Ivanovna angrily 
waving her hand. “And why should they compensate me? 
Why, he was drunk and threw himself under the horses! 
What earnings? He brought us in nothing but misery. He 
drank everything away, the drunkard! He robbed us to get 
drink, he wasted their lives and mine for drink! And thank 
God he’s dying! One less to keep!” 

“You must forgive in the hour of death, that’s a sin, 
madam, such feelings are a great sin.” 

Katerina Ivanovna was busy with the dying man; she was 
giving him water, wiping the blood and sweat from his head, 
setting his pillow straight, and had only turned now and then 
for a moment to address the priest. Now she flew at him 
almost in a frenzy. 

“Ah, father! That’s words and only words! Forgive! If 
he’d not been run over, he’d have come home to-day drunk 


and his only shirt dirty and in rags and he’d have fallen 
asleep like a log, and I should have been sousing and rinsing 
till daybreak, washing his rags and the children’s and then 
drying them by the window and as soon as it was daylight 
I should have been darning them. That’s how I spend my 
nights! . .. What’s the use of talking of forgiveness! I 
have forgiven as it is!” 

A terrible hollow cough interrupted her words. She put 
her handkerchief to her lips and showed it to the priest, 
pressing her other hand to her aching chest. The handker- 
chief was covered with blood. The priest bowed his head and 
said nothing. 

Marmeladov was in the last agony; he did not take his” 
eyes off the face of Katerina Ivanovna, who was bending 
over him again. He kept trying to say something to her; he 
began moving his tongue with difficulty and articulating 
indistinctly, but Katerina Ivanovna, understanding that 
he wanted to ask her forgiveness, called peremptorily to 

“Be silent! No need! I know what you want to say 
And the sick man was silent, but at the same instant his 
wandering eyes strayed to the doorway and he saw Sonia. 

Till then he had not noticed her: she was standing in the 

shadow in a corner. 
- “Who’s that? Who’s that?’ he said suddenly in a thick 
gasping voice, in agitation, turning his eyes in horror towards 
the door where his daughter was standing, and trying to 
sit up. 

“Lie down! Lie do-own!” cried Katerina Ivanovna. 

With unnatural strength he had succeeded in propping 
himself on his elbow. He looked wildly and fixedly for some 
time on his daughter, as though not recognising her. He 
had never seen her before in such attire. Suddenly he rec- 
ognised her, crushed and ashamed in her humiliation and 
gaudy finery, meekly awaiting her turn to say good-bye to 
her dying father. His face showed intense suffering. 

“Sonia! Daughter! Forgive!” he cried, and he tried to 
hold out his hand to her, but, losing his balance, he fell off 
the sofa, face downwards on the floor. They rushed to pick 
him up, they put him on the sofa; but he was dying. Sonia 




with a faint cry ran up, embraced him and remained so 
without moving. He died in her arms. 

“He’s got what he wanted,” Katerina Ivanovna cried, see- 
ing her husband’s dead body. “Well, what’s to be done now? 
How am I to bury him! What can I give them to-morrow 
to eat?” 

Raskolnikov went up to Katerina Ivanovna. 

“Katerina Ivanovna,” he began, “last week your husband 
told me all his life and circumstances. . . . Believe me, he 
spoke of you with passionate reverence. From that evening, 
when I learnt how devoted he was to you all and how he 
loved and respected you especially, Katerina Ivanovna, in 
spite of his unfortunate weakness, from that evening we be- 
came friends.... Allow me now... todosomething... 
to repay my debt to my dead friend. Here are twenty roubles 
I think—and if that can be of any assistance to you, then 
...1... in short, I will come again, I will be sure to come 
again ...4I shall, perhaps, come again to-morrow... . 
Good-bye !” 

And he went quickly out of the room, squeezing his way 
through the crowd to the stairs. But in the crowd he sud- 
denly jostled against Nikodim Fomitch, who had heard of 
the accident and had come to give instructions in person. 
They had not met since the scene at the police station, but 
Nikodim Fomitch knew him instantly. 

“Ah, is that you?” he asked him. 

“He’s dead,’ answered Raskolnikov. “The doctor and 
the priest have been, all as it should have been. Don’t worry 
the poor woman too much, she is in consumption as it is. 
Try and cheer her up, if possible . . . you are a kind-hearted 
man, I know...” he added with a smile, looking straight 
in his face. 

“But you are spattered with blood,’ observed Nikodim 
Fomitch, noticing in the lamplight some fresh stains on Ras- 
kolnikov’s waistcoat. 

“Yes ... Tm covered with blood,” Raskolnikov said with 
a peculiar air; then he smiled, nodded and went downstairs. 

He walked down slowly and deliberately, feverish but not 
conscious of it, entirely absorbed in a new overwhelming 
sensation of life and strength that surged up suddenly within 


him. This sensation might be compared to that of a man 
condemned to death who has suddenly been pardoned. Half- 
way down the staircase he was overtaken by the priest on 
his way home; Raskolnikov let him pass, exchanging a silent 
greeting with him. He was just descending the last steps 
when he heard rapid footsteps behind him. Some one over- 
took him; it was Polenka. She was running after him, calling 
“Wait! wait!” 

He turned round. She was at the bottom of the staircase 
and stopped short a step above him. A dim light came in 
from the yard. Raskolnikov could distinguish the child’s 
thin but pretty little face, looking at him with a bright child- 
ish smile. She had run after him with a message which she 
was evidently glad to give. 

“Tell me, what is your name? ... and where do you live?” 
she said hurriedly in a breathless voice. 

He laid both hands on her shoulders and looked at her with 
a sort of rapture. It was such a joy to him to look at her, 
he could not have said why. 

“Who sent you?” 

“Sister Sonia sent me,” answered the girl, smiling still more 

“T knew it was sister Sonia sent you.” 

“Mamma sent me, too .. . when sister Sonia was sending 
me, mamma came up, too, and said ‘Run fast, Polenka.’ ” 

“Do you love sister Sonia?” 

“T love her more than any one,” Polenka answered with a 
peculiar earnestness, and her smile became graver. 

“And will you love me?” 

By way of answer he saw the little girl’s face approaching 
him, her full lips naively held out to kiss him. Suddenly her 
arms as thin as sticks held him tightly, her head rested on 
his shoulder and the little girl wept softly, pressing her face 
against him. 

“T am sorry for father,” she said a moment later, cniaing 
her tear-stained face and brushing away the tears with her 
hands. “It’s nothing but misfortunes now,” she added sud- 
denly with that peculiarly sedate air which children try hard 
to assume when they want to speak like grown-up people.” 

“Did your father love you?” 


“He loved Lida most,” she went on very seriously without 
a smile, exactly like grown-up people, “he loved her because 
She is little and because she is ill, too. And he always used 
to bring her presents. But he taught us to read and me 
grammar and scripture, too,” she added with dignity. “And 
mother never used to say anything, but we knew that she 
liked it and father knew it, too. And mother wants to teach 
me French, for it’s time my education began.” 

“And do you know your prayers?” 

“Of course, we do! We knew them long ago. I say my 
prayers to myself as I am a big girl now, but Kolya and Lida 
say them aloud with mother. First they repeat the ‘Ave 
Maria’ and then another prayer: ‘Lord, forgive and bless 
sister Sonia,’ and then another, ‘Lord, forgive and bless our 
second father.’ For our elder father is dead and this is 
another one, but we do pray for the other as well.” 

“Polenka, my name is Rodion. Pray sometimes for me, too. 
‘And Thy servant Rodion,’ nothing more.” 

“Tll pray for you all the rest of my life,” the little girl 
declared hotly, and suddenly smiling again she rushed at him 
and hugged him warmly once more. 

Raskolnikov told her his name and address and promised 
to be sure to come next day. The child went away quite en- 
chanted with him. It was past ten when he came out into 
the street. In five minutes he was standing on the bridge at 
the spot where the woman had jumped in. 

“Enough,” he pronounced resolutely and triumphantly. 
“T’ve done with fancies, imaginary terrors and phantoms! 
Life is real! haven’t I lived just now? My life has not yet 
died with that old woman! The Kingdom of Heaven to her 
—and now enough, madam, leave me in peace! Now for 
the reign of reason and light . . . and of will, and of strength 
. » - and now we will see! We will try our strength!” he 
added defiantly, as though challenging some power of dark- 
ness. “And I was ready to consent to live in a square of 
space ! 

“I am very weak at this moment, but ...I believe my 
illness is all over. I knew it would be over when I went out. 
By the way, Potchinkov’s house is only a few steps away. 
I certainly must go to Razumihin even if it were not close 


by ... let him win his bet! Let us give him some satisfac- 
tion, too—no matter! Strength, strength is what one wants, 
you can get nothing without it, and strength must be won 
by strength—that’s what they don’t know,” he added proudly 
and self-confidently and he walked with flagging footsteps 
from the bridge. Pride and self-confidence grew continually 
stronger in him; he was becoming a different man every 
moment. What was it had happened to work this revolution 
in him? He did not know himself; like a man catching at 
a straw, he suddenly felt that he, too, ‘could live, that there 
was still life for him, that his life had not died with the old 
woman.’ Perhaps he was in too great a hurry with his con- 
clusions, but he did not think of that. fi 

“But I did ask her to remember “Thy servant Rodion’ in her 
prayers,” the idea struck him. “Well, that was ... in case 
of emergency,” he added and laughed himself at his boyish 
sally. He was in the best of spirits. 

He easily found Razumihin; the new lodger was already 
known at Potchinkov’s and the porter at once showed him the 
way. Half-way upstairs he could hear the noise and ani- 
mated conversation of a big gathering of people. The door 
was wide open on the stairs; he could hear exclamations and 
discussion. Raziumihin’s room was fairly large; the com- 
pany consisted of fifteen people. Raskolnikov stopped in the 
entry, where two of the landlady’s servants were busy behind 
a screen with two samovars, bottles, plates and dishes of pie 
and savouries, brought up from the landlady’s kitchen. 
Raskolnikov sent in for Razumihin. He ran out delighted. 
At the first glance it was apparent that he had had a great 
deal to drink and, though no amount of liquor made Razu- 
mihin quite drunk, this time he was perceptibly affected by it. 

“Listen,” Raskolnikov hastened to say, “I’ve only just 
come to tell you you’ve won your bet and that no one really 
knows what may not happen to him. I can’t come in; I am 
so weak that I shall fall down directly. And so good eve- 
ning and good-bye! Come and see me to-morrow.” 

“Do you know what? I'll see you home. If you say you’re 
weak yourself, you must... ” 

“And your visitors? Who is the curly-headed one who has 
just peeped out?” 



“He? Goodness only knows! Some friend of uncle’s I 
expect, or perhaps he has come without being invited... 
I’ll leave uncle with them, he is an invaluable person, pity I 
can’t introduce you to him now. But confound them all 
now! They won’t notice me, and I need a little fresh air, 
for you’ve come just in the nick of time—another two minutes 
and I should have come to blows! They are talking such a 
lot of wild stuff ... you simply can’t imagine what men 
will say! Though why shouldn’t you imagine? Don’t we 
talk nonsense ourselves? And let them... that’s the way 
to learn not to! ... Wait a minute, I’ll fetch Zossimov.” 

Zossimov pounced upon Raskolnikov almost greedily; 
he showed a special interest in him; soon his face bright- 

“You must go to bed at once,” he pronounced, examining 
the patient as far as he could, “and take something for the 
night. Will you take it? I got it ready some time ago 
“vs powder,” 

“Two if you like,’ answered Raskolnikov. The powder 
was taken at once. 

“It’s a good thing you are taking him home,” observed 
Zossimov to Razumihin—‘“we shall see how he is to-morrow, 
to-day he’s not at all amiss: a considerable change since the 
afternoon. Live and learn... ” 

“Do you know what Zossimov whispered to me when we 
were coming out?” Razumihin blurted out, as soon as they 
were in the street. “I won't tell you everything, brother, 
because they are such fools. Zossimov told me to talk freely 
to you on the way and get you to talk freely to me, and 
afterwards I am to tell him about it, for he’s got a notion in 
his head that you are ... mad or close on it. Only fancy! 
In the first place, yon’ve three times the brains he has; in the 
second, if you are not mad, you needn’t care a hang that he 
nas got such a wild idea; and thirdly, that piece of beef whose 
specialty is surgery has gone mad on mental diseases, and 
what’s brought him to this conclusion about you was your 
conversation to-day with Zametov.” 

“Zametov told you all about it?” 

“Yes, and he did well. Now I understand what it all means 
and so does Zametov. ... Well, the fact is, Rodya... 


the point is...I am a little drunk now.... But that’s 
> «- nomatter ..,. the point is that this idea . . . you under- 
stand? was just being hatched in their brains . . . you under- 
stand? That is, no one ventured to say it aloud, because the 
idea is too absurd and especially since the arrest of that 
painter, that bubble’s burst and gone for ever. But why are 
they such fools? I gave Zametov a bit of a thrashing at the 
time—that’s between ourselves, brother; please don’t let out 
a hint that you know of it; I’ve noticed he is a ticklish 
subject; it was at Luise Ivanovna’s. But to-day, to-day it’s 
all cleared up. That Ilya Petrovitch is at the bottom of it! 
He took advantage of your fainting at the police station, but, 
‘he is ashamed of it himself now; I know that... ” 

Raskolnikov listened greedily. Razumihin was drunk 
enough to talk too freely. 

“I fainted then because it was so close and the smell of 
paint,” said Raskolnikov. 

“No need to explain that! And it wasn’t the paint only: 
the fever had been coming on for a month; Zossimov testifies 
to that! But how crushed that boy is now, you wouldn't 
believe! ‘I am not worth his little finger,’ he says. Yours, 
he means. He has good feelings at times, brother. But the 
lesson, the lesson you gave him to-day in the Palais de 
Crystal, that was too good for anything! You frightened 
him at first, you know, he nearly went into convulsions! You 
almost convinced him again of the truth of all that hideous 
nonsense, and then you suddenly—put out your tongue at 
him: ‘There now, what do you make of it?’ It was perfect! 
He is crushed, annihilated now! It was masterly, by Jove, 
it’s what they deserve! Ah, that I wasn’t there! He was 
hoping to see you awfully. Porfiry, too, wants to make your 

“Ah! ... he too... but why did they put me down as 

“Oh, not mad. I must have said too much brother... 
What struck him, you see, was that only that subject seemed 
to interest you; now it’s clear why it did interest you; know- 
ing all the circumstances ... and how that irritated you 
and worked in with your illness ...I am a little drunk, 
brother, only, confound him, he has some idea of his own 



»- + 1 tell you, he’s mad on mental diseases. But don’t you 
mind him...” ) 

For half a minute both were silent. 

“Listen, Razumihin,” began Raskolnikov, “I want to tell 
you plainly: I’ve just been at a death-bed, a clerk who died 
--.I1 gave them all my money ... and besides I’ve just 
been kissed by some one who, if I had killed any one, would 
just the same fact I saw some one else there... 
with a flame-coloured feather . . . but Iam talking nonsense; 
I am very weak, support me ... we shall be at the stairs 
divecty: . eor 

“What’s the matter? What’s the matter with you?” Razu- 
mihin asked anxiously. 

“I am a little giddy, but that’s not the point, I am so sad, so 
sad ... like a woman. Look, what’s that? Look, look!” 

“What is it?” 

“Don’t you see? A light in my room, you see? Through 
the crack...” 

They were already at the foot of the last flight of stairs, at 
the level of the landlady’s door, and they could, as a fact, 
see from below that there was a light in Raskolnikov’s garret. 

“Queer! Nastasya, perhaps,” observed Razumihin. 

“She is never in my room at this time and she must be in 
bed long ago, but ...I don’t care! Good-bye!” 

“What do you mean? Iam coming with you, we'll come in 
together !” 

“I know we are going in together, but I want to shake 
hands here and say good-bye to you here. So give me your 
hand, good-bye!” 

“What's the matter with you, Rodya?” 

“Nothing ... come along ... you shall be witness.” 

They began mounting the stairs, and the idea struck Razu- 
mihin that perhaps Zossimov might be right after all. “Ah, 
I’ve upset him with my chatter!” he muttered to himself. 

When they reached the door they heard voices in the room. 

“What is it?” cried Razumihin. 

Raskolnikov was the first to open the door; he flung it 
wide and stood still in the doorway, dumbfoundered. 

His mother and sister were sitting on his sofa and had 
been waiting an hour and a half for him. Why had he never 


expected, never thought of them, though the news that they 
had started, were on their way and would arrive immediately, 
had been repeated to him only that day? They had spent that 
hour and a half plying Nastasya with questions. She was still 
standing before them and had told them everything by now. 
They were beside themselves with alarm when they heard of 
his “running away” to-day, ill and, as they understood from 
her story, delirious! “Good Heavens, what had become of 
him?’ Both had been weeping, both had been in anguish 
for that hour and a half. 

A cry of joy, of ecstasy, greeted Raskolnikov’s entrance. 
Both rushed to him. But he stood like one dead; a sudden 
intolerable sensation struck him like a thunderbolt. He did 
not lift his arms to embrace them, he could not. His mother 
and sister clasped him in their arms, kissed him, laughed and 
cried. He took ‘a step, tottered and fell to the ground, 

Anxiety, cries of horror, moans . .. Razumihin who was 
standing in the doorway flew into the room, seized the sick 
man in his strong arms and in a moment had him on the 

“Tt’s nothing, nothing!” he cried to the mother and sister— 
“Tt’s only a faint, a mere trifle! Only just now the doctor 
-said he was much better, that he is perfectly well! Water! 
See, he is coming to himself, he is all right again!” 

And seizing Dounia by the arm so that he almost dislocated 
it, he made her bend down to see that “he is all right again.” 
The mother and sister looked on him with emotion and 
gratitude, as their Providence. They had heard already from 
Nastasya all that had been done for their Rodya during his 
_ illness, by this ‘very competent young man,” as Pulcheria 
Alexandrovna Raskolnikov called him that evening in con- 
versation with Dounia. 




ASKOLNIKOV got up, and sat down on the sofa. He 
R waved his hand weakly to Razumihin to cut short the 
flow of warm and incoherent consolations he was ad- 
dressing to his mother and sister, took them both by the hand 
and for a minute or two gazed from one to the other without 
speaking. His mother was alarmed by his expression. It 
revealed an emotion agonisingly poignant, and at the same 
time something immovable, almost insane. Pulcheria Alex- 
androvna began to cry. 

Avdotya Romanovna was pale; her hand trembled in her 

“Go home ... with him,” he said in a broken voice, point- 
ing to Razumihin, “good-bye till to-morrow; to-morrow 
everything. . . . Is it long since you arrived?” 

“This evening, Rodya,’’ answered Pulcheria Alexandrovna, 
“the train was awfully late. But, Rodya, nothing would 
induce me to leave you now! I will spend the night here, 
near you...” 

“Don’t torture me!” he said with a gesture of irritation. 

“T will stay with him,” cried Razumihin, “I won’t leave him 
for a moment. Bother all my visitors! Let them rage to 
their hearts’ content! My uncle is presiding there.” 

“How, how can I thank you!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna 
was beginning, once more pressing Razumihin’s hands, but 
Raskolnikov interrupted her again. 

“I can’t have it! I can’t have it!” he repeated irritably, 
“don’t worry me! Enough, go away. ... I can’t stand it!” 

“Come, mamma, come out of the room at least a minute,” 
Dounia whispered in dismay; “we are distressing him, that’s 



“Mayn’t I look at him after three years?” wept Pulcheria 

“Stay,” he stopped them again, “you keep interrupting me, 
and my ideas get muddled. .. . Have you seen Luzhin?” 

“No, Rodya, but he knows already of our arrival. We 
heard, Rodya, that Pyotr Petrovitch was so kind as to visit 
you to-day,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna added somewhat tim- 

“Yes ... he was so kind. . . Dounia, I promised Luzhin 
I'd throw him downstairs and told him to go to hell... .” 

“Rodya, what are you saying! Surely, you don’t mean to 
tell us....” Pulcheria Alexandrovna began in alarm, but, 
she stopped, looking at Dounia. . 

Avdotya Romanovna was looking attentively at her 
brother, waiting for what would come next. Both of them 
had heard of the quarrel from Nastasya, so far as she had 
succeeded in understanding and reporting it, and were in 
painful perplexity and suspense. 

“Dounia,” Raskolnikov continued with an effort, “I don’t 
want that marriage, so at the first opportunity to-morrow you 
must refuse Luzhin, so that we may never hear his name 

“Good Heavens!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. 

“Brother, think what you are saying!” Avdotya Roma- 
novna began impetuously, but immediately checked herself. 
“You are not fit to talk now, perhaps; you are tired,” she 
added gently. 

“You think I am delirious? No.... You are marrying 
Luzhin for my sake. But I won’t accept the sacrifice. And 
60 write a letter before to-morrow, to refuse him. ... Let 
me read it in the morning and that will be the end of it!” 

“That I can’t do!” the girl cried, offended, “what right 
have you... .” 

“Dounia, you are hasty, too, be quiet, to-morrow.... 
Don’t you see,” . . . the mother interposed in dismay. “Bet- 
ter come away!” 

“He is raving,” Razumihin cried tipsily, “or how would 
he dare! To-morrow all this nonsense will be over... . 
To-day he certainly did drive him away. That was so. 
And Luzhin got angry, too....He made speeches here, 

dia : 


wanted to show off his learning and he went out crest- 
fallen, Ga’ 
_ “Then it’s true?” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. 

“Good-bye till to-morrow, brother,” said Dounia compas. 
sionately—‘“let us go, mother. . . . Good-bye, Rodya.” 

“Do you hear, sister,’ he repeated after them, making a 
last effort, “I am not delirious; this marriage is—an infamy. 
Let me act like a scoundrel, but you mustn’t ... one is 
enough ... and though I am a scoundrel, I wouldn’t own 
such a sister. It’s me or Luzhin! Go now... .” 

“But you’re out of your mind! Despot!’’ roared Razumi- 
hin; but Raskolnikov did not and perhaps could not answer. 
He lay down on the sofa, and turned to the wall utterly 
exhausted. Avdotya Romanovna looked with interest at 
Razumihin; her black eyes flashed; Razumihin positively 
started at her glance. 

Pulcheria Alexandrovna stood overwhelmed. 

“Nothing would induce me to go,” she whispered in despair 
to Razumihin. “I will stay somewhere here... escort 
Dounia home.” 

“You'll spoil everything,” Razumihin answered in the same 
whisper, losing patience—“come out on to the stairs, any- 
way. Nastasya, show a light! I assure you,” he went on in 
a half whisper on the stairs—‘“that he was almost beating the 
doctor and me this afternoon! Do you understand? The 
doctor himself! Even he gave way and left him, so as not 
to irritate him. I remained downstairs on guard, but he 
dressed at once and slipped off. And he will slip off again 
if you irritate him, at this time of night, and will do him- 
self some mischief. . . .” 

“What are you saying?’ 

“And Avdotya Romanovna can’t possibly be left in those 
lodgings without you. Just think where you are staying! 
That blackguard Pyotr Petrovitch couldn’t find you better 
lodgings. . . . But you know I’ve had a little to drink, and 
that’s what makes me ... swear; don’t mind it... . .” 

“But Pll go to the landlady here,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna 
insisted, “I’ll beseech her to find some corner for Dounia and 
me for the night. I can’t leave him like that, I cannot!” 

This conversation took place on the landing just before the 


landlady’s door. Nastasya lighted them from a step below. 
Razumihin was in extraordinary excitement. Half an hour 
earlier, while he was bringing Raskolnikov home, he had 
indeed talked too freely, but he was aware of it himself, and 
his head was clear in spite of the vast quantities he had 
imbibed. Now he was in a state bordering on ecstasy, and 
all that he had drunk seemed to fly to his head with redoubled 
effect. He stood with the two ladies, seizing both by their 
hands, persuading them, and giving them reasons with aston- 
ishing plainness of speech, and at almost every word he 
uttered, probably to emphasise his arguments, he squeezed 
their hands painfully as in a vice. He stared at Avdotya 
Romanovna without the least regard for good manners. 
They sometimes pulled their hands out of his huge bony 
paws, but far from noticing what was the matter, he drew 
them all the closer to him. If they’d told him to jump head 
foremost from the staircase, he would have done it without 
thought or hesitation in their service. Though Pulcheria 
Alexandrovna felt that the young man was really too eccen- 
tric and pinched her hand too much, in her anxiety over her 
Rodya she looked on his presence as providential, and was 
unwilling to notice all his peculiarities. But though Avdotya 
Romanovna shared her anxiety, and was not of timorous dis- 
. position, she could not see the glowing light in his eyes with- 
out wonder and almost alarm. It was only the unbounded 
confidence inspired by Nastasya’s account of her brother’s 
queer friend, which prevented her from trying to run away 
from him, and to persuade her mother to do the same. She 
realised, too, that even running away was perhaps impossible 
now. Ten minutes later however, she was considerably reas- 
sured; it was characteristic of Razumihin that he showed 
his true nature at once, whatever mood he might be in, so 
that people quickly saw the sort of man they had to deal 

“You can’t go to the landlady, that’s perfect nonsense!” 
he cried. “If you stay, though you are his mother, you'll 
drive him to a frenzy, and then goodness knows what will 
happen! Listen, I’ll tell you what I’ll do: Nastasya will 
stay with him now, and J’ll conduct you both home, you can’t 
be in the streets alone; Petersburg is an awful place in that 

nS ee ee 

IP = pee 

Se ee | 



way. ... But no matter! Then I'll run straight back here 
and a quarter of an hour later, on my word of honour, I'l] 
bring you news how he is, whether he is asleep, and all that. 
Then, listen! Then I’ll run home in a twinkling—lI’ve a lot 
of friends there, all drunk—I’ll fetch Zossimov—that’s the 
doctor who is looking after him, he is there, too, but he is 
not drunk; he is not drunk, he is never drunk! I'll drag 
him to Rodya, and then to you, so that you'll get two reports 
in the hour—from the doctor, you understand, from the 
doctor himself, that’s a very different thing from my account 
of him! If there’s anything wrong, I swear I'll bring you 
here myself, but, if it’s all right, you go to bed. And I'll 
spend the night here, in the passage, he won’t hear me, and 
T’ll tell Zossimov to sleep at the landlady’s, to be at hand. 
Which is better for him: you or the doctor? So come home 
then! But the landlady is out of the question; it’s all right 
for me, but it’s out of the question for you: she wouldn’t 
take you, for she’s . . . for she’s a fool. .. . She’d be jeal- 
ous on my account of Avdotya Romanovna and of you, too, 
if you want to know .. . of Avdotya Romanovna certainly. 
She is an absolutely, absolutely unaccountable character ! 
But I am a fool, too! ...No matter! Come along! Do 
you trust me? Come, do you trust me or not?” 

“Let us go, mother,” said Avdotya Romanovna, “he will 
certainly do what he has promised. He has saved Rodya 
already, and if the doctor really will consent to spend the 
night here, what could be better ?” 

“You see, you... you... understand me, because you 
are an angel!” Razumihin cried in an ecstasy, “let us go! 
Nastasya! Fly upstairs and sit with him with a light; I'll 
come in a quarter of an hour.” 

Though Pulcheria Alexandrovna was not perfectly con- 
vineed, she made no further resistance. Razumihin gave 
an arm to each and drew them down the stairs. He still 
made her uneasy, as though he was competent and good- 
natured, was he capable of carrying out his promise? He 
seemed in such a condition. ... 

“Ah, I see you think I am in such a condition!” Razumihin 
broke in upon her thoughts, guessing them, as he strolled 
along the pavement with huge steps, so that the two ladies 



could hardly keep up with him, a fact he did not observe, 
however. “Nonsense! That is... Iam drunk like a fool, 
but that’s not it; I am not drunk from wine. It’s seeing you 
has turned my head. ... But don’t mind me! Don’t take 
any notice: I am talking nonsense, I am not worthy of 
you. ...IJ am utterly unworthy of you! The minute I’ve 
taken you home, I’ll pour a couple of pailfuls of water over 
my head in the gutter here, and then I shall be all right.... 
If only you knew how I love you both! Don’t laugh, and 
don’t be angry! You may be angry with any one, but not 
with me! I am his friend, and therefore I am your friend, 
too. I want to be....I had a presentiment ... last year 
there was a moment... though it wasn’t a presentiment 
really, for you seem to have fallen from heaven. And I 
expect I shan’t sleep all night. ... Zossimov was afraid a 
little time ago that he would go mad...4hat’s why he 
mustn’t be irritated.” 

“What do you say?” cried the mother. 

“Did the doctor really say that?” asked Avdotya Roma- 
novna, alarmed. 

“Yes, but it’s not so, not a bit of it. He gave him some 
medicine, a powder, I saw it, and then your coming here. ... 
Ah! It would have been better if you had come to-morrow. 
It’s a good thing we went away. And in an hour Zossimov 
himself will report to you about everything. He is not drunk! 
And I shan’t be drunk. . . . And what made me get so tight? 
Because they got me into an argument, damn them! I’ve 
sworn never to argue! They talk such trash! I almost 
came to blows! I’ve left my uncle to preside. Would you 
believe, they insist on complete absence of individualism and 
that’s just what they relish! Not to be themselves, to be as 
unlike themselves as they can. That’s what they regard as 
the highest point of progress. If only their nonsense were 
their own, but as it is... .” 

“Listen!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna interrupted timidly, but 
it only added fuel to the flames. 

“What do you think?” shouted Razumihin, louder than 
ever, “you think I am attacking them for talking nonsense? 
Not a bit! I like them to talk nonsense. That’s man’s one 
privilege over all creation. Through error you come to the 


truth! I am a man because I err! You never reach any 
truth without making fourteen mistakes and very likely a 
hundred and fourteen. And a fine thing, too, in its way; 
but we can’t even make mistakes on our own account! Talk 
nonsense, but talk your own nonsense, and ll kiss you for it, 
To go wrong in one’s own way is better than to go right in 
some one else’s. In the first case you are a man, in the 
second you’re no better than a bird. Truth won’t escape 
you, but life can be cramped. There have been examples. 
And what are we doing now? In science, development, 
thought, invention, ideals, aims, liberalism, judgment, expe- 
rience and everything, everything, everything, we are still 
in the preparatory class at school. We prefer to live on 
other people’s ideas, it’s what we are used to! Am I right, 
am I right?” cried Razumihin, pressing and shaking the two 
ladies’ hands. 

“Oh, mercy, I do not know,” cried poor Pulcheria Alex- 

“Ves, yes... though I don’t agree with you in every- 
thing,” added Avdotya Romanovna earnestly and at once 
uttered a cry, for he squeezed her hand so painfully. 

“Yes, you say yes... well after that you... you... 
he cried in a transport, “you are a fount of goodness, purity, 
sense ...and perfection. Give me your hand... you 
give me yours, too! I want to kiss your hands here at once, 
on my knees ... ” and he fell on his knees on the pavement, 
fortunately at that time deserted. 

“Leave off, I entreat you, what are you doing?” Pulcheria 
Alexandrovna cried, greatly distressed. 

“Get up, get up!” said Dounia laughing, though she, too, 
was upset. 

“Not for anything till you let me kiss your hands! That’s 
it! Enough! I get up and we'll go on! I am a luckless 
fool, I am unworthy of you and drunk ...and I am 
ashamed. . . . Iam not worthy to love you, but to do homage 
to you is the duty of every man who is not perfect beast! 
And I’ve done homage. . . . Here are your lodgings, and for 
that alone Rodya was right in driving your Pyotr Petrovitch 
away. . . . How dare he! how dare he put you in such lodg- 
ings! It’s a scandal! Do you know the sort of people they 



take in here? And you his betrothed! You are his be- 
trothed? Yes? Well, then, I tell you, your fiancé is a 

“Excuse me, Mr. Razumihin, you are forgetting...’ 
Pulcheria Alexandrovna was beginning. 

“Yes, yes, you are right, I did forget myself, I am ashamed 
of it,’ Razumihin made haste to apologise. “But... but 
you can’t be angry with me for speaking so! For I speak 
sincerely and not because ... hm, hm! That would be dis- 
graceful; in fact not because I’m! Well, any- 
way I won’t say why, I daren’t. .. . But all we saw to-day 
when he came in that that man is not of our sort. Not 
because he had his hair curled at the barber’s, not because he 
was in such a hurry to show his wit, but because he is a 
spy, a speculator, because he is a skinflint and a buffoon. 
That’s evident. Do you think him clever? No, he is a fool, 
a fool. And is he a match for you? Good heavens! Do 
you see, ladies?” he stopped suddenly on the way upstairs 
to their rooms, “though all my friends there are drunk, yet 
they are all honest, and though we do talk a lot of trash, 
and I do, too, yet we shall talk our way to the truth at last, 
for we are on the right path, while Pyotr Petrovitch ... is 
not on the right path. Though I’ve been calling them all 
sorts of names just now, I do respect them all . . . though I 
don’t respect Zametov, I like him, for he is a puppy, and that 
bullock Zossimoy, because he is an honest man and knows 
his work. But enough, it’s all said and forgiven. Is it for- 
given? Well, then, let’s go on. I know this corridor, Pve 
been here, there was a scandal here at Number 3.... 
Where are you here? Which number? eight? Well, lock 
yourselves in for the night, then. Don’t let anybody in. 
In a quarter of an hour I’ll come back with news, and half 
an hour later I’ll bring Zossimov, you'll see! Good-bye; I'll 

“Good heavens, Dounia, what is going to happen?” said 
Pulcheria Alexandrovna, addressing her daughter with 
anxiety and dismay. 

“Don’t worry yourself, mother,” said Dounia, taking off 
her hat and cape. “God has sent this gentleman to our aid, 
though he has come from a drinking party. We can depend 



on him, I assure you. And all that he has done for 
Rodya. 35337 

“Ah, Dounia, goodness knows whether he will come! How 
could I bring myself to leave Rodya? ... And how differ- 
ent, how different I had fancied our meeting! How sullen 
he was, as though not pleased to see us. . . .” 

Tears came into her eyes. 

“No, it’s not that, mother. You didn’t see, you were 
crying all the time. He is quite unhinged by serious illness— 
that’s the reason.” 

“Ah, that illness! What will happen, what will happen? 
And how he talked to you, Dounia!” said the mother, look- 
ing timidly at her daughter, trying to read her thoughts 
and, already half consoled by Dounia’s standing up for her 
brother, which meant that she had already forgiven him. 
“IT am sure he will think better of it to-morrow,” she added, 
probing her further. 

“And I am sure that he will say the same to-morrow... 
about that,’ Avdotya Romanovna said finally. And, of 
course, there was no going beyond that, for this was a 
point which Pulcheria Alexandrovna was afraid to discuss. 
Dounia went up and kissed her mother. The latter warmly 
embraced her without speaking. Then she sat down to wait 
anxiously for Razumihin’s return, timidly watching her 
daughter who walked up and down the room with her arms 
folded, lost in thought. This walking up and down when 
she was thinking was a habit of Avdotya Romanovna’s and 
the mother was always afraid to break in on her daughter’s 
mood at such moments. 

Razumihin, of course, was ridiculous in his sudden 
drunken infatuation for Avdotya Romanovna. Yet apart 
from his eccentric condition, many people would have 
thought it justified, if they had seen Avdotya Romanovna, 
especially at that moment when she was walking to and 
fro with folded arms, pensive and melancholy. Avdotya 
Romanovna was remarkably good looking; she was tall, 
strikingly well-proportioned, strong and_ self-reliant—the 
latter quality was apparent in every gesture, though it did 
not in the least detract from the grace and softness of 
her movements. In face she resembled her brother, but she 


might be described as really beautiful. Her hair was dark 
brown, a little lighter than her brother’s; there was a 
proud light in her almost black eyes and yet at times a 
look of extraordinary kindness. She was pale, but it was 
a healthy pallor; her face was radiant with freshness and 
vigour. Her mouth was rather small; the full red lower 
lip projected a little as did her chin; it was the only 
irregularity in her beautiful face, but it gave it a peculiarly 
individual and almost haughty expression, Her face was 
always more serious and thoughtful than gay; but how well 
Smiles, how well youthful, light-heatted, irresponsible, 
laughter suited her face! It was natural enough that a 
Warm, open, simple-hearted, honest giant like Razumihirt, 
who had never seen any one like her and was not quite 
sober at the time, should lose his head immediately. Besides, 
as chance would have it, he saw Dounia for the first time 
transfigured by her love for her brother and her joy at 
meeting him. Afterwards he saw her lower lip quiver with 
indignation at her brother’s insolent, cruel and ungrateful 
words—and his fate was sealed. 

He had spoken the truth, moreover, when he blurted out 
in his drunken talk on the stairs that Praskovya Pavlovna, 
Raskolnikov’s eccentric landlady, would be jealous of 
Pulcheria Alexandrovna as well as of Avdotya Romanovna 
on his account. Although Pulcheria Alexandrovna was 
forty-three, her face still retained traces of her former 
beauty; she looked much younger than het age, indeed, 
which is almost always the case with women who retain 
serenity of spirit, sensitiveness and pure sincere warmth of 
heart to old age. We may add in parenthesis that to 
preserve all this is the only means of retaining beauty to 
old age. Her hair had begun to grow grey and thin, there 
had long been little crow’s foot wrinkles round her eyes, 
her cheeks were hollow and sunken from anxiety and grief, 
and yet it was a handsome face. She was Dounia over 
again, twenty years older, but without the projecting under- 
lip. Pulcheria Alexandrovna was emotional, but not senti- 
mental, timid and yielding, but only to a certain point. She 
could give way and accept a great deal even of what was 
contrary to her convictions, but there was a certain barrier 


fixed by honesty, principle and the deepest convictions which 
nothing would induce her to cross. 

Exactly twenty minutes after Razumihin’s departure, 
there came two subdued but hurried knocks at the door: 
he had come back. 

“I won’t come in, I haven’t time,” he hastened to say 
when the door was opened. “He sleeps like a top, soundly, 
quietly, and God grant he may sleep ten hours. Nastasya’s 
with him; I told her not to leave till I came. Now I am 
fetching Zossimov, he will report to you and then you’d 
better turn in; I can see you are too tired to do 
anything. .. .” 

And he ran off down the corridor. 

“What a very competent and... devoted young man!” 
cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna exceedingly delighted. 

“He seems a splendid person!” Avdotya Romanovna 
replied with some warmth, resuming her walk up and down 
the room. 

It was nearly an hour later when they heard footsteps 
in the corridor and another knock at the door. Both 
women waited this time completely relying on Razumihin’s 
promise; he actually had succeeded in bringing Zossimov. 
Zossimoy had agreed at once to desert the drinking party 
to go to Raskolnikov’s, but he came reluctantly and with 
the greatest suspicion to see the ladies, mistrusting 
Razumihin in his exhilarated condition. But his vanity 
was at once reassured and flattered; he saw that they were 
really expecting him as an oracle. He stayed just ten 
minutes and succeeded in completely convincing and 
comforting Pulcheria Alexandrovna. He spoke with 
marked sympathy, but with the reserve and extreme 
seriousness of a young doctor at an important consultation. 
He did not utter a word on any other subject and did not 
display the slightest desire to enter into more personal 
relations with the two ladies. Remarking at his first 
entrance the dazzling beauty of Avdotya Romanovna, he 
endeavoured not to notice her at all during his visit and 
addressed himself solely to Pulcheria Alexandrovna. All 
this gave him extraordinary inward satisfaction. He 
declared that he thought the invalid at this moment going 


on very satisfactorily. According to his observations the 
patient’s illness was due partly to his unfortunate material 
surroundings during the last few months, but it had partly 
also a moral origin, “was so to speak the product of several 
material and moral influences, anxieties, apprehensions, 
troubles, certain ideas ...and so on.” Noticing stealthily 
that Avdotya Romanovna was following his words with 
close attention, Zossimov allowed himself to enlarge on this 
theme. On Pulcheria Alexandrovna’s anxiously and timidly 
inquiring as to “some suspicion of insanity,” he replied with 
a composed and candid smile that his words had been 
exaggerated; that certainly the patient had some fixed idea, 
something approaching a monomania—he, Zossimov, was 
now particularly studying this interesting branch of 
medicine—but that it must be recollected that until to-day 
the patient had been in delirium and... and that no doubt 
the presence of his family would have a favourable effect 
on his recovery and distract his mind, “if only all fresh 
shocks can be avoided,” he added significantly. Then he 
got up, took leave with an impressive and affable bow, 
while blessings, warm gratitude, and entreaties were 
showered upon him, and Avdotya Romanovna spontaneously 
offered her hand to him. He went out exceedingly pleased 
with his visit and still more so with himself. 

“We'll talk to-morrow; go to bed at once!” Razumihin 
said in conclusion, following Zossimov out. “T’ll be with 
you to-morrow morning as early as possible with my 

“That’s a fetching little girl, Avdotya Romanovna,” 
remarked Zossimov, almost licking his lips as they both 
came out into the street. 

“Fetching? You said fetching?” roared Razumihin and 
he flew at Zossimov and seized him by the throat. “If you 
ever dare. ... Do you understand? Do you understand?” 
he shouted, shaking him by the collar and squeezing him 
against the wall. “Do you hear?” 

“Let me go, you drunken devil,” said Zossimov, struggling, 
and when he had let him go, he stared at him and went off 
into a sudden guffaw. Razumihin stood facing him in 
gloomy and earnest reflection. 


“Of course, I am an ass,” he observed, sombre as a storm 
cloud, “but still . . . you are another.” 

“No, brother, not at all such another. I am not dreaming 
of any folly.” . 

They walked along in silence and only when they were 
close to Raskolnikov’s lodgings, Razumihin broke the silence 
in considerable anxiety. 

“Listen,” he said, “you’re a first-rate fellow, but among 
your other failings, you’re a loose fish, that I know, and 
a dirty one, too. You are a feeble, nervous wretch, and a 
mass of whims, you’re getting fat and lazy and can’t deny 
yourself anything—and I call that dirty because it leads 
one straight into the dirt. You've let yourself get so slack 
that I don’t know how it is you are still a good, even a 
devoted doctor. You—a doctor—sleep on a feather bed and 
get up at night to your patients! In another three or four 
years you won’t get up for your patients. ... But hang it 
all, that’s not the point! ... You are going to spend to- 
night in the landlady’s flat here. (Hard work I’ve had to 
persuade her!) And I'll be in the kitchen. So here’s a 
chance for you to get to know her better. . .. It’s not as 
you think! There’s not a trace of anything of the sort, 

“But I don’t think!” 

“Here you have modesty, brother, silence, bashfulness, a 
savage virtue ...and yet she’s sighing and melting like 
wax, simply melting! Save me from her, by all that’s 
unholy! She’s most prepossessing. ... Ill repay you, Ill 
do anything... .” 

Zossimov laughed more violently than ever. 

“Well, you are smitten! But what am I to do with her?” 

“It won’t be much trouble, I assure you. Talk any rot 
you like to her, as long as you sit by her and talk. You’re 
a doctor, too; try curing her of something. I swear you 
won't regret it. She has a piano, and you know, I strum a 
little. I have a song there, a genuine Russian one: ‘I shed 
hot tears.’ She likes the genuine article—and well, it all 
began with that song; Now you're a regular performer, 
a maitre, a Rubinstein....I1 assure you, you won't re- 
gret it!” 


“But have you made her some promise? Something 
‘signed? A promise of marriage, perhaps?” 

“Nothing, nothing, absolutely nothing of the kind! 
Besides she is not that sort at all. ... Tchebarov tried 
thats Hie | 

“Well then, drop her!” 

“But I can’t drop her like that!” 

“Why can’t you?” 

“Well, I can’t, that’s all about it! There’s an element 
of attraction here, brother.” 

“Then why have you fascinated her?” 

“T haven’t- fascinated her; perhaps, I was fascinated , 
myself in my folly. But she won’t care a straw whether it’s 
you or I, so long as somebody sits beside her, sighing. . .. 
I can’t explain the position, brother . . . look here, you are 
good at mathematics, and working at it now... begin 
teaching her the integral calculus; upon my soul, I’m not 
joking, I’m in earnest, it’ll be just the same to her. She 
will gaze at you and sigh for a whole year together. I 
talked to her once for two days at a time about the Prussian 
House of Lords (for one must talk of something)—she 
just sighed and perspired! And you mustn’t talk of love— 
she’s bashful to hysterics—but just let her see you can’t 
tear yourself away—that’s enough. It’s fearfully com- 
fortable; you’re quite at home, you can read, sit, lie about, 
write. You may even venture on a kiss, if you’re careful.” 

“But what do I want with her?” 

“Ach, I can’t make you understand! You see, you are 
made for each other! I have often been reminded of 
you! ... You'll come to it in the end! So does it matter 
whether it’s sooner or later? There’s the feather-bed ele- 
ment here, brother,—ach! and not only that! There’s an 
attraction here—here you have the end of the world, an 
anchorage, a quiet haven, the navel of the earth, the three 
fishes that are the foundation of the world, the essence of 
pancakes, of savoury fish-pies, of the evening samovar, of 
soft sighs and warm shawls, and hot stoves to sleep on—as 
snug as though you were dead, and yet you’re alive—the 
advantages of both at once! Well, hang it, brother, what 
stuff I’m talking, it’s bedtime! Listen. I sometimes wake 


up at night; so I’ll go in and look at him. But there’s no 
need, it’s all right. Don’t you worry yourself, yet if you. 
like, you might just look in once, too. But if you notice 
anything, delirium or fever—wake me at once. But there 
cant besa. .” 


troubled and serious. He found himself confronted 

with many new and unlooked-for perplexities. He 
had never expected that he would ever wake up feeling 
like that. He remembered every detail of the previous day» 
and he knew that a perfectly novel experience had befallen 
him, that he had received an impression unlike anything he 
had known before. At the same time he recognised clearly 
that the dream which had fired his imagination was hope- 
lessly unattainable—so unattainable that he felt positively 
ashamed of it, and he hastened to pass to the other more 
practical cares and difficulties bequeathed him by that 
“thrice accursed yesterday.” 

The most awful recollection of the previous day was the 
way he had shown himself “base and mean,” not only 
because he had been drunk, but because he had taken 
advantage of the young girl’s position to abuse her fiancé 
in his stupid jealousy, knowing nothing of their mutual 
relations and obligations and next to nothing of the man 
himself. And what right had he to criticise him in that 
hasty and unguarded manner? Who had asked for his 
opinion? Was it thinkable that such a creature as Avdotya 
Romanovna would be marrying an unworthy man for 
money? So there must be something in him. The lodgings? 
But after all how could he know the character of the 
lodgings? He was furnishing a flat...Foo, how 
despicable it all was! And what justification was it that 
he was drunk? Such a stupid excuse was even more 
degrading! In wine is truth, and the truth had all come 
out, “that is, all the uncleanness of his coarse and envious 
heart!” And would such a dream ever be permissible to 
him, Razumihin? What was he beside such a girl—he, the 
drunken noisy braggart of last night? “Was it possible to 


R ttestiea’en waked up next morning at eight o’clock, 


imagine so absurd and cynical a juxtaposition?” Razumihin 
blushed desperately at the very idea and suddenly the 
recollection forced itself vividly upon him of how he had 
said last night on the stairs that the landlady would be 
jealous of Avdotya Romanovna... that was simply 
intolerable. He brought his fist down heavily on the kitchen 
stove, hurt his hand and sent one of the bricks flying. 

“Of course,” he muttered to himself a minute later with 
a feeling of self-abasement, “of course, all these infamies 
can never be wiped out or smoothed over ... and so it’s 
useless even to think of it, and I must go to them in silence my duty silence, too,...and not 
ask forgiveness, and say nothing... for all is lost 
now !” 

And yet as he dressed he examined his attire more care- 
fully than usual. He hadn’t another suit—if he had had, 
perhaps he wouldn’t have put it on, “I would have made 
a point of not putting it on.’ But in any case he could 
not remain a cynic and a dirty sloven; he had no right to 
offend the feelings of others, especially when they were in 
need of his assistance and asking him to see them. He 
brushed his clothes carefully. His linen was always decent; 
in that respect he was especially clean. 

He washed that morning scrupulously—he got some soap 
from Nastasya—he washed his hair, his neck and especially 
his hands. When it came to the question whether to shave 
his stubbly chin or not (Praskovya Pavlovna had capital 
razors that had been left by her late husband), the question 
was angrily answered in the negative. “Let it stay as it is! 
What if they think that I shaved on purpose to...? They 
certainly would think so. Not on any account!” 

“And ... the worst of it was he was so coarse, so dirty, ° 
he had the manners of a pothouse; and . . . even admitting 
that he knew he had some of the essentials of a gentleman 

. what was there in that to be proud of? Every one 
ought to be a gentleman and more than that ... and all the 
same (he remembered) he, too, had done little things... 
not exactly dishonest, and yet... . And what thoughts he 
sometimes had; hm... and to set all that beside Avdotya 
Romanovna! Confound it! So be it! Well, he’d make a 


point then of being dirty, greasy, pothouse in his manners 
and he wouldn’t care! He’d be worse!” 

He was engaged in such monologues when Zossimov, who 
had spent the night in Praskovya Pavlovna’s parlour, came in. 

He was going home and was in a hurry to look at the 
invalid first. Razumihin informed him that Raskolnikov was 
sleeping like a dormouse. Zossimov gave orders that they 
shouldn’t wake him and promised to see him again about 

“Tf he is still at home,” he added. “Damn it all! If one 
can’t control one’s patients, how is one to cure them! Do 
you know whether he will go to them, or whether they are, 
coming here?” 

“They are coming, I think,” said Razumihin, understanding 
the object of the question, “and they will discuss their family 
affairs, no doubt. I'll be off. You, as the doctor, have more 
right to be here than I.” 

“But I am not a father confessor; I shall come and go 
away; I’ve plenty to do besides looking after them.” 

“One thing worries me,” interposed Razumihin, frowning. 
“On the way home I talked a lot of drunken nonsense to 
him ... all sorts of things . . . and amongst them that you 
were afraid that he ... might become insane.” 

“You told the ladies so, too.” ; 

~“T know it was stupid! You may beat me if you like! 
Did you think so seriously?” 

“That’s nonsense, I tell you, how could I think it seriously! 
You, yourself, described him as a monomaniac when you 
fetched me to him ... and we added fuel to the fire yes- 
terday, you did, that is, with your story about the painter; 
it was a nice conversation when he was, perhaps, mad on that 
very point! If only Id known what happened then at the 
police station and that some wretch ... had insulted him 
with this suspicion! Hm. .. I would not have allowed that 
conversation yesterday, These monomaniacs will make a 
mountain out of a molehill . . . and see their fancies as solid 
realities. .. . As far as I remember, it was Zametov’s story 
that cleared up half the mystery to my mind. Why, I know 
one case in which a hypochondriac, a man of forty, cut the 
throat of a little boy of eight, because he couldn’t endure the 


jokes he made every day at table! And in this case his rags, 
the insolent police-officer, the fever and this suspicion! All 
that working upon a man half frantic with hypochondria, 
and with his morbid exceptional vanity! That may well have 
been the starting-point of illness. Well, bother it all! ... 
And, by the way, that Zametov certainly is a nice fellow, 
but hm... he shouldn’t have told all that last night. He 
is an awful chatterbox!” 

“But whom did he tell it to? You and me?” 

“And Porfiry.” ! 

“What does that matter?” 

“And, by the way, have you any influence on them, his 
mother and sister? ‘Tell them to be more careful with him 
to-day... .” 

“They'll get on all right!” Razumihin answered reluctantly. 

“Why is he so set against this Luzhin? A man with 
money and she doesn’t seem to dislike him... and they 
haven’t a farthing I suppose? eh?” 

“But what business is it of yours?” Razumihin cried with 
annoyance. “How can I tell whether they’ve a farthing? 
Ask them yourself and perhaps you'll find out... .” 

“Foo, what an ass you are sometimes! Last night’s wine 
has not gone off yet... . Good-bye; thank your Praskovya 
Pavlovna from me for my night’s lodging. She locked her- 
self in, made no reply to my bonjour through the door; she 
was up at seven o’clock, the samovar was taken into her 
from the kitchen. I was not vouchsafed a personal inter- 
VIEW, 6's 

At nine o’clock precisely Razumihin reached the lodgings 
at Bakaleyev’s house. Both ladies were waiting for him with 
nervous impatience. They had risen at seven o'clock or 
eatlier. He entered looking as black as night, bowed awk- 
wardly and was at once furious with himself for it. He had 
reckoned without his host: Pulcheria Alexandrovna fairly 
rushed at him, seized him by both hands and was almost kiss- 
ing them. He glanced timidly at Avdotya Romanovna, but 
her proud countenance wore at that moment an expression 
of such gratitude and friendliness, such complete and un- 
looked-for respect (in place of the sneering looks andi ill- 
disguised contempt he had expected), that it threw him into 


greater confusion than if he had been met with abuse. 
Fortunately there was a subject for conversation, and he 
made haste to snatch at it. 

Hearing that everything was going well and that olive 
had not yet waked, Pulcheria Alexandrovna declared that 
she was glad to hear it, because “she had something which 
it was very, very necessary to talk over beforehand.” Then 
followed an inquiry about breakfast and an invitation to have 
it with them; they had waited to have it with him. Avdotya 
Romanovna rang the bell: it was answered by a ragged dirty — 
waiter, and they asked him to bring tea which was served 
at last, but in such a dirty and disorderly way, that the_ 
ladies were ashamed. Razumihin vigorously attacked thé 
lodgings, but, remembering Luzhin, stopped in embarrass- 
ment and was greatly relieved by Pulcheria Alexandrovna’s 
questions, which showered in a continual stream upon him. 

He talked for three quarters of an hour, being constantly 
interrupted by their questions, and succeeded in describing 
to them all the most important facts he knew of the last year 
of Raskolnikov’s life, concluding with a circumstantial 
account of his illness. He omitted, however, many things, 
which were better omitted, including the scene at the police 
station with all its consequences. They listened eagerly to 
his story, and, when he thought he had finished and satisfied 
his listeners, he found that they considered he had hardly 

“Tell me, tell me! What do you think ...? Excuse me, 
I still don’t know your name!” Pulcheria Alexandrovna put 
in hastily. 

“Dmitri Prokofitch.” 

“I should like very, very much to know, Dmitri Prokofitch 
- « - how he looks... on things in general now, that is, 
how can I explain, what are his likes and dislikes? Is he 
always so irritable? Tell me, if you can, what are his hopes 
and so to say his dreams? Under what influences is he now? 
In a word, I should like .. .” 

“Ah, mother, how can he answer all that at once?” 
observed Dounia. 

“Good heavens, I had not expected to find him in the least 
like this, Dmitri Prokofitch !” 


“Naturally,” answered Razumihin. “TI have no mother, but 
my uncle comes every year and almost every time he can 
scarcely recognise me, even in appearance, though he is a 
clever man; and your three years’ separation means a great 
deal. What am I to tell you? I have known Rodion for a 
year and a half; he is morose, gloomy, proud and haughty, 
and of late—and perhaps for a long time before—he has been 
suspicious and fanciful. He has a noble nature and a kind 
heart. He does not like showing his feelings and would 
rather do a cruel thing than open his heart freely. Some- 
times, though, he is not at all morbid, but simply cold and 
inhumanly callous; it’s as though he were alternating be- 
tween two characters. Sometimes he is fearfully reserved! 
He says he is so busy that everything is a hindrance, and 
yet he lies in bed doing nothing. He doesn’t jeer at things, 
not because he hasn’t the wit, but as though he hadn’t time 
to waste on such trifles. He never listens to what is said to 
him. He is never interested in what interests other people 
at any given moment. He thinks very highly of himself 
and perhaps he is right. Well, what more? I think your 
arrival will have a most beneficial influence upon him.” 

“God grant it may,” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna, dis- 
tressed by Razumihin’s account of her Rodya. 

And Razumihin ventured to look more boldly at Avdotya 
Romanovna at last. He glanced at her often while he was 
talking, but only for a moment and looked away again at 
once. Avdotya Romanoyna sat at the table, listening atten- 
tively, then got up again and began walking to and fro with 
her arms folded and her lips compressed, occasionally putting 
in a question, without stopping her walk. She had the same 
habit of not listening to what was said. She was wearing 
a dress of thin dark stuff and she had a white transparent 
scarf round her neck. Razumihin soon detected signs of 
extreme poverty in their belongings. Had Avdotya Roma- 
novna been dressed like a queen, he felt that he would not 
be afraid of her, but perhaps just because she was poorly 
dressed and that he noticed all the misery of her surround- 
ings, his heart was filled with dread and he began to be 
afraid of every word he uttered, every gesture he made, 
which was very trying for a man who already felt diffident. 


“You've told us a great deal that is interesting about my 
brother’s character ... and have told it impartially. I am 
glad. I thought that you were too uncritically devoted to 
him,” observed Avdotya Romanovna with a smile. “I think 
you are right that he needs a woman’s care,” she added 

“I didn’t say so; but I daresay you are right, only .. .” 


“He loves no one and perhaps he never will,” Razumihin 
declared decisively. 

“You mean he is not capable of love?” 

“Do you know, Avdotya Romanovna, you are awfully like 
your brother, in everything, indeed!” he blurted out suddenly 
to his own surprise, but remembering at once what he had 
just before said of her brother, he turned as red as a crab and 
was overcome with confusion. Avdotya Romanovna couldn’t 
help laughing when she looked at him. 

“You may both be mistaken about Rodya,”’ Pulcheria 
Alexandrovna remarked, slightly piqued. “I am not talking 
of our present difficulty, Dounia. What Pyotr Petrovitch 
writes in this letter and what you and I have supposed may 
be mistaken, but you can’t imagine, Dmitri Prokofitch, how 
moody and, so to say, capricious he is. I never could depend 
on what he would do when he was only fifteen. And I am 
-sure that he might do something now that nobody else would 
think of doing. . .. Well, for instance, do you know how a 
year and a half ago he astounded me and gave me a shock 
that nearly killed me, when he had the idea of marrying that 
girl—what was her name—his landlady’s daughter ?” 

“Did you hear about that affair?’ asked Avdotya 

“Do you sttppose—”’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna continued 
warmly. “Do you suppose that my tears, my entreaties, my 
illness, my possible death from grief, our poverty would have 
made him pause? No, he would calmly have disregarded all 
obstacles. And yet it isn’t that he doesn’t love us!” 

“He has never spoken a word of that affair to me,” 
Razumihin answered cautiously. “But I did hear something 
from Praskovya Pavlovna herself, though she is by no means 
a gossip. And what I heard certainly was rather strange.” 


“And what did you hear?” both the ladies asked at once. 

“Well, nothing very special. I only learned that the mar- 
riage, which only failed to take place through the girl’s death, 
was not at all to Praskovya Pavlovna’s liking. They say, 
too, the girl was not at all pretty, in fact I am told positively - 
ugly . .. and such an invalid ... and queer. But she seems 
to have had some good qualities. She must have had some 
good qualities or it’s quite inexplicable. ... She had no 
money either and he wouldn’t have considered her money. 
, « « But it’s always difficult to judge in such matters.” 

“I am sure she was a good girl,” Avdotya Romanovna 
observed briefly. 

“God forgive me, I simply rejoiced at her death. Though 
I don’t know which of them would have caused most misery 
to the other—he to her or she to him,” Pulcheria Alexan- 
drovna concluded. Then she began tentatively questioning 
him about the scene on the previous day with Luzhin, hesi- 
tating and continually glancing at Dounia, obviously to the 
latter’s annoyance. This incident more than all the rest evi- 
dently caused her uneasiness, even consternation. Razumihin 
described it in detail again, but this time he added his own 
conclusions: he openly blamed Raskolnikov for intentionally 
insulting Pyotr Petrovitch, not seeking to excuse him on the 
score of his illness. 

“He had planned it before his illness,” he added. 

“T think so, too,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna agreed with a 
dejected air. But she was very much surprised at hearing 
Razumihin express himself so carefully and even with a cer- 
tain respect about Pyotr Petrovitch. Avdotya Romanovna, 
too, was struck by it. 

“So this is your opinion. of Pyotr Petrovitch?” Pulcheria 
Alexandrovna could not resist asking. 

“I can have no other opinion of your daughter’s future 
husband,” Razumihin answered firmly, and with warmth, 
“and I don’t say it simply from vulgar politness, but be- 
cause ... simply because Avdotya Romanovna has of her 
own free will deigned to accept this man. If I spoke so 
rudely of him last night, it was because I was disgustingly 
drunk and .. . mad besides; yes, mad, crazy, I lost my head 
completely . . . and this morning I am ashamed of it.” 


He crimsoned and ceased speaking. Avdotya Romanovna 
flushed, but did not break the silence. She had not uttered 
a word from the moment they began to speak of Luzhin. 

Without her support Pulcheria Alexandrovna obviously did 
not know what to do. At last, faltering and continually 
glancing at her daughter, she confessed that she was exceed- 
ingly worried by one circumstance. 

“You see, Dmitri Prokofitch,” she began. “T’ll be perfectly 
open with Dmitri Prokofitch, Dounia?” 

“Of course, mother,” said Avdotya Romanovna emphati- 

“This is what it is,’ she began in haste, as though the» 
permission to speak of her trouble lifted a weight off her 
mind. “Very early this morning we got a note from Pyotr 
Petrovitch in reply to our letter announcing our arrival. He 
promised to meet us at the station, you know; instead of that 
he sent a servant to bring us the address of these lodgings 
and to show us the way; and he sent a message that he would 
be here himself this morning. But this morning this note 
came from him. You'd better read it yourself; there is one 
point in it which worries me very much ... you will soon 
see what that is, and . . . tell me your candid opinion, Dmitri 
Prokofitch! You know Rodya’s character better than any 
one and no one can advise us better than you can. Dounia, 
I must tell you, made her decision at once, but I still don’t 
feel sure how to act and I... I’ve been waiting for your 

Razumihin opened the note which was dated the previous 
evening and read as follows :— 

“Dear Mapam, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, I have the honour to in- 
form you that owing to unforeseen obstacles I was rendered unable to 
meet you at the railway station; I sent a very competent person with 
the same object in view. I likewise shall be deprived of the honour 
of an interview with you to-morrow morning by business in the 
Senate that does not admit of delay, and also that I may not intrude 
on your family circle while you are meeting your son, and Avdotya 
Romanovna her brother. I shall have the honour of visiting you and 
paying you my respects at your lodgings not later than to-morrow 
evening at eight o’clock precisely, and herewith I venture to present 
my earnest and, I may add, imperative request that Rodion Romano- 
vitch may not be present at our interview—as he offered me a gross 


and unprecedented affront on the occasion of my visit to him in his 
illness yesterday, and, moreover, since I desire from you personally 
an indispensable and circumstantial explanation upon a certain point, 
in regard to which I wish to learn your own interpretation. I have 
the honour to inform you, in anticipation, that if, in spite of my 
request, I meet Rodion Romanovitch, I shall be compelled to with- 
draw immediately and then you have only yourself to blame. I write 
on the assumption that Rodion Romanovitch who appeared so ill at 
my visit, suddenly recovered two hours later and so, being able to 
leave the house, may visit you also. I was confirmed in that belief 
by the testimony of my own eyes in the lodging of a drunken man 
who was run over and has since died, to whose daughter, a young 
woman of notorious behaviour, he gave twenty-five roubles on the 
pretext of the funeral, which gravely surprised me knowing what 
pains you were at to raise that sum. MHerewith expressing my 
special respect to your estimable daughter, Avdotya Romanovna, I 
beg you to accept the respectful homage of 
“Your humble servant, 
“P, LuzHIn.” 

“What am I to do now, Dmitri Prokofitch?” began Pul- 
cheria Alexandrovna, almost weeping. “How can I ask 
Rodya not to come? Yesterday he insisted so earnestly on 
our refusing Pyotr Petrovitch and now we are ordered not 
to receive Rodya! He will come on purpose if he knows, 
and... what will happen then?” 

“Act on Avdotya Romanovna’s decision,” Razumihin 
answered calmly at once. 

“Oh, dear me! She says... goodness knows what she 
says, she doesn’t explain her object! She says that it would 
be best, at least, not that it would be best, but that it’s abso- 
lutely necessary that Rodya should make a point of being 
here at eight o’clock and that they must meet... . I didn’t 
want even to show him the letter, but to prevent him from 
coming by some stratagem with your help ... because he 
is so irritable. ... Besides I don’t understand about that 
drunkard who died and that daughter, and how he could have 
given the daughter all the money ... which.. .” 

“Which cost you such sacrifice, mother,” put in Avdotya 

“He was not himself yesterday,” Razumihin said thought- 
fully, “if you only knew what he was up to in a restaurant 
yesterday, though there was sense in it too.... Hm! He 
did say something, as we were going home yesterday evening, 


about a dead man and a girl, but I didn’t understand a 
word. ... But last night I myself...” 

“The best thing, mother, will be for us to go to him our- 
selves and there I assure you we shall see at once what’s to 
he done. Besides, it’s getting late—good heavens, it’s past 
ten,” she cried looking at a splendid gold enamelled watch 
which hung round her neck on a thin Venetian chain, and 
looked entirely out of keeping with the rest of her dress. “A 
present from her fiancé,” thought Razumihin. 

We must start, Dounia, we must start,” her mother 
cried in a flutter, “He will be thinking we are still angry 
after yesterday, from our coming so late. Merciful heav; 
ens |” 

While she said this she was hurriedly putting on her hat 
and mantle; Dounia, too, put on her things. Her gloves, as 
Razumihin noticed, were not merely shabby but had holes in 
them, and yet this evident poverty gave the two ladies an air 
of special dignity, which is always found in people who know 
how to wear poor clothes. Razumihin looked reverently at 
Dounia and felt proud of escorting her. “The queen who 
mended her stockings in prison,” he thought, “must have 
looked then every inch a queen and even more a queen than 
at sumptuous banquets and levées.” 

“My God,” exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna, “little did 
I think that I should ever fear seeing my son, my darling, 
darling Rodya! JI am afraid, Dmitri Prokofitch,” she added, 
glancing at him timidly, 

“Don’t be afraid, mother,” said Dounia, kissing her, “better 
have faith in him,” 

“Oh dear, I have faith in him, but I haven’t slept all night,” 
exclaimed the poor woman. 

They came out into the street. 

“Do you know, Dounia, when I dozed a little this morning 
I dreamed of Marfa Petrovna ,.. she was all in white... 
she came up to me, took my hand, and shook her head at me, 
but so sternly as though she were blaming me. ,, , Is that 
a good omen? Oh, dear me! You don’t know Dmitri Pro- 
kofitch that Marfa Petrovna’s dead !” 

“No, I didn’t know; who is Marfa Petrovna?” 

“She died suddenly; and only fancy ., .” 


“Afterwards, mamma,” put in Dounia. “He doesn’t know 
who Marfa Petrovna is.” 

“Ah, you don’t know? And I was thinking that you knew 
all about us. Forgive me, Dmitri Prokofitch. I don’t know 
what I am thinking about these last few days. I look upon 
you really as a providence for us, and so I took it for granted 
that you knew all about us. I look on you as a relation. . 
Don’t be angry with me for saying so. Dear me, what’s the 
matter with your right hand? Have you knocked it?” 

“Yes, I bruised it,’ muttered Razumihin overjoyed. 

“I sometimes speak too much from the heart, so that 
Dounia finds fault with me. ... But, dear me, what a cup- 
board he lives in! I wonder whether he is awake? Does 
this woman, his landlady, consider it a room? Listen, you 
say he does not like to show his feelings, so perhaps I shall 
annoy him with my ... weaknesses? Do advise me, Dmitri 
Prokofitch, how am I to treat him? I feel quite distracted, 
you know.” 

“Don’t question him too much about anything if you see 
him frown; don’t ask him too much about his health; he 
doesn’t like that.” 

“Ah, Dmitri Prokofitch, how hard it is to be a mother! 
But here are the stairs ... What an awful staircase!” 

“Mother, you are quite pale, don’t distress yourself, darl- 
ing,” said Dounia caressing her, then with flashing eyes she 
added: “He ought to be happy at seeing you, and you are 
tormenting yourself so.” 

“Wait, I’ll peep in and see whether he has waked up.” 

The ladies slowly followed Razumihin, who went on before, 
and when they reached the landlady’s door on the fourth 
storey, they noticed that her door was a tiny crack open and 
that two keen black eyes were watching them from the dark- 
ness within. When their eyes met, the door was suddenly 
shut with such a slam that Pulcheria Alexandrovna almost 
cried out. 


e E is well quite well!” Zossimov cried cheerfully 
as they entered. 

He had come in ten minutes earlier and was 
sitting in the same place as before, on the sofa. Raskolnikov 
was sitting in the opposite corner, fully dressed and carefully 
washed and combed, as he had not been for some time paste 
The room was immediately crowded, yet Nastasya managed 
to follow the visitors in and stayed to listen. 

Raskolnikov really was almost well, as compared with his 
condition the day before, but he was still pale, listless, and 
sombre. He looked like a wounded man or one who has 
undergone some terrible physical suffering. His brows were 
knitted, his lips compressed, his eyes feverish. He spoke 
little and reluctantly, as though performing a duty, and there 
was a restlessness in his movements. 

He only wanted a sling on his arm or a bandage on his 
finger to complete the impression of a man with a painful 
abscess or a broken arm. The pale, sombre face lighted up 
for a moment when his mother and sister entered, but this 
only gave it a look of more intense suffering, in place of its 
listless dejection. The light soon died away, but the look of 
suffering remained, and Zossimov, watching and studying his 
patient with all the zest of a young doctor beginning to 
practise, noticed in him no joy at the arrival of his mother 
and sister, but a sort of bitter, hidden determination to bear 
another hour or two of inevitable torture. He saw later that 
almost every word of the following conversation seemed to 
touch on some sore place and irritate it. But at the same 
time he marvelled at the power of controlling himself and 
hiding his feelings in a patient who the previous day had, like 
a monomaniac, fallen into a frenzy at the slightest word. 

“Yes, Isee myself now that I am almost well,” said Raskol- 
nikov, giving his mother and sister a kiss of welcome which 
made Pulcheria Alexandrovna radiant at once. “And I don’t 



say this as I did yesterday,” he said, addressing Razumihin, 
with a friendly pressure of his hand. 

“Yes, indeed, I am quite surprised at him to-day,” began 
Zossimov, much delighted at the ladies’ entrance, for he had 
not succeeded in keeping up a conversation with his patient 
for ten minutes. “In another three or four days, if he goes 
on like this, he will be just as before, that is, as he was a 
month ago, or two... or perhaps even three. This has 
been coming on for a long while Confess, now, 
that it has been perhaps your own fault?” he added, with a 
tentative smile, as though still afraid of irritating him. 

“Tt is very possible,” answered Raskolnikov coldly. 

“I should say, too,” continued Zossimov with zest, “that 
your complete recovery depends solely on yourself. Now that 
one can talk to you, I should like to impress upon you that it 
is essential to avoid the elementary, so to speak, fugdamental 
causes tending to produce your morbid condition: in that 
case you will be cured, if not, it will go from bad to worse. 
These fundamental causes I don’t know, but they must be 
known to you. You are an intelligent man, and must have 
observed yourself, of course. I fancy the first stage of your 
derangement coincides with your leaving the university. You 
must not be left without occupation, and so, work and a 
definite aim set before you might, I fancy, be very beneficial.” 

“Yes, yes; you are perfectly right. .. . I will make haste 
and return to the university: and then everything will go 
smoothly. .. .” 

Zossimov, who had begun his sage advice partly to make 
an effect before the ladies, was certainly somewhat mystified, 
when, glancing at his patient, he observed unmistakable 
mockery on his face. This lasted an instant, however. Pul- 
cheria Alexandrovna began at once thanking Zossimov, 
especially for his visit to their lodging the previous night. 

“What! he saw you last night?” Raskolnikov asked, as 
though startled. “Then you have not slept either after your 

“Ach, Rodya, that was only till two o’clock. Dounia and 
I never go to bed before two at home.” 

“T don’t know how to thank him either,” Raskolnikov went 
on, suddenly frowning and looking down. “Setting aside the 


question of payment—forgive me for referring to it (he 
turned to Zossimov )—I really don’t know what I have done 
to deserve such special attention from you! I simply don’t 
understand it...and...and... it weighs upon me, 
indeed, because I don’t understand it. I tell you so can- 

“Don’t be irritated,” Zossimov forced himself to laugh. 
“Assume that you are my first patient—well—we fellows 
just beginning to practise love our first patients as if they 
were our children, and some almost fall in love with them. 
And, of course, I am not rich in patients.” 

“I say nothing about him,” added Raskolnikov, pointing to 
Razumihin, “though he has had nothing from me either but 
insult and trouble.” 

“What nonsense he is talking! Why, you are in a senti- 
mental mood to-day, are you?” shouted Razumihin. 

If he had had more penetration he would have seen that 
there was no trace of sentimentality in him, but something 
indeed quite the opposite. But Avdotya Romanovna noticed 
it. She was intently and uneasily watching her brother. 

“As for you, mother, I don’t dare to speak,” he went on, 
as though repeating a lesson learned by heart. “It is only 
to-day that I have been able to realise a little how distressed 
you must have been here yesterday, waiting for me to come 

When he had said this, he suddenly held out his hand to- 
his sister, smiling without a word. But in this smile there 
was a flash of real unfeigned feeling. Dounia caught it at 
once, and warmly pressed his hand, overjoyed and thankful. 
It was the first time he had addressed her since their dispute 
the previous day. The mother’s face lighted up with ecstatic 
happiness at the sight of this conclusive unspoken reconcilia- 
tion. “Yes, that is what I love him for,” Razumihin, exag- 
gerating it all, muttered to himself, with a vigorous turn in 
his chair. “He has these movements” 

“And how well he does it all,” the mother was thinking 
to herself. “What generous impulses he has, and how simply. 
how delicately he put an end to all the misunderstanding 
with his sister—simply by holding out his hand at the right 
minute and looking at her like that.. . . And what fine eyes 


he has, and how fine his whole face is! . . . He is even better 
looking than Dounia. ... But, good heavens, what a suit 
how terribly he’s dressed! . . . Vasya, the messenger boy in 
Afanasy Ivanitch’s shop, is better dressed! I could rush at 
him and hug him. . . weep over him—but I am afraid... 
Oh, dear, he’s so strange! He’s talking kindly, but I’m 
afraid! Why, what am J afraid of? ...” 

“Oh, Rodya, you wouldn’t believe,” she began suddenly, in 
haste to answer his words to her, “how unhappy Dounia and 
I were yesterday! Now that it’s all over and done with and 
we are quite happy again—I can tell you. Fancy, we ran 
here almost straight from the train to embrace you and that 
woman—ah, here she is! Good morning, Nastasya! ... She 
told us at once that you were lying in a high fever and had 
just run away from the doctor in delirium, and they were 
looking for you in the streets. You can’t imagine how we 
felt! I couldn’t help thinking of the tragic end of Lieutenant 
Potanchikov, a friend of your father’s—you can’t remember 
him, Rodya——who ran out in the same way in a high fever 
and fell into the well in the courtyard and they couldn’t pull 
him out till next day. Of course, we exaggerated things. We 
were of the point of rushing to find Pyotr Petrovitch to ask 
him to help. .. . Because we were alone, utterly alone,” she 
said plaintively and stopped short, suddenly, recollecting it 
was still somewhat dangerous to speak of Pyotr Petrovitch, 
although “we are quite happy again.” 

“Yes, yes... . Of course it’s very annoying. . . .” Raskol- 
nikov muttered in reply, but with such a preoccupied and in- 
attentive air that Dounia gazed at him in perplexity. 

“What else was it I wanted to say,” he went on trying to 
recollect. “Oh, yes; mother, and you too, Dounia, please 
don’t think that I didn’t mean to come and see you to-day 
and was waiting for you to come first.” 

“What are you saying, Rodya?” cried Pulcheria Alexan- 
drovna. She, too, was surprised. 

“Is he answering us as a duty?” Dounia wondered. “Is he 
being reconciled and asking forgiveness as though he were 
performing a rite or repeating a lesson?” 

“[’ve only just waked up, and wanted to go to you, but 
was delayed owing tomy clothes; I forgot yesterday to ask 


her ... Nastasya ... to wash out the blood... I’ve only 
just got dressed.” 

“Blood! What blood?” Pulcheria Alexandrovna asked in 

“Oh! nothing—don’t be uneasy. It was when I was wander- 
ing about yesterday, rather delirious, I chanced upon a man 
who had been run over ...aclerk. f 

“Delirious? But you remember everything!” Razumihin 

“That’s true,” Raskolnikov answered with special careful- 
ness. “I remember everything even to the slightest detail, 
and yet—why I did that and went there and said that, I can i 
clearly explain now.’ 

“A familiar phenomenon,” interposed Zéssimov, “actions 
are sometimes performed in a masterly and most cunning 
way, while the direction of the actions is deranged and 
dependent on various morbid impressions—it’s like a dream.” 

“Perhaps it’s a good thing really that he should think me 
almost a madman,” thought Raskolnikov. 

“Why, people in perfect health act in the same way too,” 
observed Dounia, looking uneasily at Zossimov. 

“There is some truth in your observation,” the latter 
replied. “In that sense we are certainly all not infrequently 
like madmen, but with the slight difference that the deranged 
_ are somewhat madder, for we must draw a line. A normal 
man, it is true, hardly exists. Among dozens—perhaps hun- 
dreds of thousands—hardly one is to be met with.” 

At the word “madman,” carelessly dropped by Zossimov 
in his chatter on his favourite subject, every one frowned. 

Raskolnikov sat seeming not to pay attention, plunged in 
thought with a strange smile on his pale lips. He was still 
meditating on something. 

“Well, what about the man who was run over? I inter- 
rupted you!” Razumihin cried hastily. 

“What?” Raskolnikov seemed to wake up. “Oh...I 
got spattered with blood helping to carry him to his lodging. 
By the way, mamma, I did an unpardonable thing yesterday. 
I was literally out of my mind. I gave away all the money 
you sent me ... to his wife for the funeral. She’s a widow 
now, in consumption, a poor creature ... three little chil- 


dren, starving . . . nothing in the house .. . there’s a daugh- 
ter, too... perhaps you’d have given it yourself if you'd 
seen them. But I had no right to do it I admit, especially 
as I knew how you needed the money yourself. To help 
others one must have the right to do it, or else Crevez, chiens, 
si vous n’étes pas contents.’ He laughed. “That’s right, isn’t 
it Dounia?” 

“No, it’s not,” answered Dounia firmly. 

“Bah! you, too, have ideals,” he muttered, looking at her 
almost with hatred, and smiling sarcastically. “I ought to 
have considered that. . . . Well, that’s praiseworthy, and it’s 
better for you... and if you reach a line you won't over- 
step, you will be unhappy ... and if you overstep it, may 
be you will be still unhappier. . . . But all that’s nonsense,” 
he added irritably, vexed at being carried away. “I only 
meant to say that I beg your forgiveness, mother,” he con- 
cluded, shortly and abruptly. 

“That’s enough, Rodya, I am sure that everything you 
do is very good,” said his mother, delighted. 

“Don’t be too sure,” he answered, twisting his mouth into a 

A silence followed. There was a certain constraint in all 
this conversation, and in the silence, and in the reconciliation, 
and in the forgiveness, and all were feeling it. 

“It is as though they were afraid of me,” Raskolnikov was 
thinking to himself, looking askance at his mother and sister. 
Pulcheria Alexandrovna was indeed growing more timid the 
longer she kept silent. 

“Yet in their absence I seemed to love them so much,” 
flashed through his mind. 

“Do you know, Rodya, Marfa Petrovna is dead,” Pulcheria 
Alexandrovna suddenly blurted out. 

“What Marfa Petrovna?” 

“Oh, mercy on us—Marfa Petrovna Svidrigailov. I wrote 
you so much about her.” 

“A-a-h! Yes. I remember. ... So she’s dead! Oh, 
really ?” he roused himself suddenly, as if waking up. ‘What 
did she die of ?” 

“Only imagine, quite suddenly,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna 
answered hurriedly, encouraged by his curiosity. “On the 


very day I was sending you that letter! Would you believe 
it, that awful man seems to have been the cause of her death. 
They say he beat her dreadfully.” 

“Why, were they on such bad terms?” he asked, addressing 
his sister, 

“Not at all. Quite the contrary indeed. With her, he was 
always very patient, considerate even. In fact, all those seven 
years of their married life he gave way to her, too much so 
indeed, in many cases. All of a sudden he seems to have lost 

“Then he could not have been so awful if he controlled 
himself for seven years? You seem to be defending him, 
Dounia ?” , 

“No, no, he’s an awful man! I can imagine nothing more 
awful!” Dounia answered, almost with a shudder, knitting 
her brows, and sinking into thought. 

“That had happened in the morning,’ Pulcheria Alexan- 
drovna went on hurriedly. “And directly afterwards she 
ordered the horses to be harnessed to drive to the town 
immediately after dinner. She always used to drive to the 
town in such cases. She ate a very good dinner, I am 
olen eg ® 

“After the beating?” 

“That was always her... habit; and immediately after 
-dinner, so as not to be late in starting, she went to the 
bath-house. ... You see, she was undergoing some treat- 
ment with baths. They have a cold spring there, and 
she used to bathe in it regularly every day, and no 
sooner had she got into the water when she suddenly had 
a stroke!” 

“T should think so,” said Zossimov. 

“And did he beat her badly ?” 

“What does that matter!” put in Dounia. 

“H’m! But I don’t know why you want to tell us such 
gossip, mother,” said Raskolnikov irritably, as it were in spite 
of himself. 

“Ah, my dear, I don’t know what to talk about,” broke from 
Pulcheria Alexandrovna. 

“Why, are you all afraid of me?” he asked, with a con- 
strained smile. 


“That’s certainly true,” said Dounia, looking directly and 
sternly at her brother. “Mother was crossing herself with 
terror as she came up the stairs.” 

His face worked, as though in convulsion. 

“Ach, what are you saying, Dounia! Don’t be angry, 
please, Rodya. . . . Why did you say that, Dounia?” Pulcheria 
Alexandrovna began, overwhelmed—‘“You see, coming here, 
I was dreaming ali the way, in the train, how we should meet, 
how we should talk over everything together. ... And I was 
so happy, I did not notice the journey! But what am I say- 
ing? I am happy now. ... You should not, Dounia.... I 
am happy now—simply in seeing you, Rodya....” 

“Hush, mother,” he muttered in confusion, not looking at 
her, but pressing her hand. ‘We shall have time to speak 
freely of everything!” 

As he said this, he was suddenly overwhelmed with con- 
fusion and turned pale. Again that awful sensation he had 
known of late passed with deadly chill over his soul. Again 
it became suddenly plain and perceptible to him that he had 
just told a fearful lie—that he would never now be able to 
speak freely of everything—that he would never again be 
able to speak of anything to any one. The anguish of this 
thought was such that for a moment he almost forgot him- 
self. He got up from his seat, and not looking at any one 
walked towards the door. 

“What are you about?” cried Razumihin, clutching him by 
the arm. 

He sat down again, and began looking about him, in silence. 
They were all looking at him in perplexity. 

“But what are you all so dull for?” he shouted, suddenly 
and quite unexpectedly. “Do say something! What’s the use 
of sitting like this? Come, do speak. Let us talk. ... We 
meet together and sit in silence. . . . Come, anything!” 

“Thank God; I was afraid the same thing as yesterday was 
beginning again,” said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, crossing her- 

“What is the matter, Rodya?” asked Avdotya Romanovna, 

“Oh, nothing! I remembered something,” he answered, 
and suddenly laughed. 


“Well, if you remembered something; that’s all right! .. . I 
was beginning to think .. . ” muttered Zossimov, getting up 
from the sofa. “It is time for me to be off. I will look in 
again perhaps ...if I can...” He made his bows, and 
went out. 

“What an excellent man!” observed Pulcheria Alexan- 

“Yes, excellent, splendid, well-educated, intelligent,’ Raskol- 
nikov began, suddenly speaking with surprising rapidity, and 
a liveliness he had not shown till then. “I can’t remember 
where I met him before my illness. . . . I believe I have met 
him somewhere ... And this is a good man, too,” he 
nodded at Razumihin. “Do you like him, Dounia?” he asked 
her; and suddenly, for some unknown reason, laughed. 

“Very much,” answered Dounia. 

“Foo—what a pig you are,’ Razumihin protested, blushing 
in terrible confusion, and he got up from his chair. Pulcheria 
Alexandrovna smiled faintly, but Raskolnikov laughed aloud. 

“Where are you off to?” 

“T must go.” 

“You need not at all. Stay. Zossimov has gone, so you 
must. Don’t go. What’s the time? Is it twelve o'clock? 
What a pretty watch you have got Dounia. But why are you 

all silent again. I do all the talking.” 

“Tt was a present from Marfa Petrovna,” answered Dounia. 

“And a very expensive one!” added Pulcheria Alexan- 

“A-ah! What a big one! Hardly like a lady’s.” 

“T like that sort,” said Dounia. 

“So it is not a present from her fiancé,” thought Razu- 
mihin, and was unreasonably delighted. 

“T thought it was Luzhin’s present,” observed Raskolnikov. 

“No, he has not made Dounia any presents yet.” 

“A-ah! And do you remember, mother, I was in love and 
wanted to get married?” he said suddenly, looking at his 
mother, who was disconcerted by the sudden change of sub- 
_ ject and the way he spoke of it. 

“Oh, yes, my dear.” 

Pulcheria Alexandrovna exchanged glances with Dounia 
and Razumihin. 


“F’m, yes. What shall I tell you? I don’t remember much 
indeed. She was such a sickly girl,’ he went on, growing 
dreamy and looking down again. “Quite an invalid. She 
was fond of giving alms to the poor, and was always dream- 
ing of a nunnery, and once she burst into tears when she 
began talking to me about it. Yes, yes, I remember. I 
remember very well. She was an ugly little thing. I really 
don’t know what drew me to her then—I think it was because 
she was always ill. If she had been lame or hunchback, I 
believe I should have liked her better still,’ he smiled 
dreamily. “Yes, it was a sort of spring delirium.” 

“No, it was not only spring delirium,’ said Dounia, with 
warm feeling. 

He fixed a strained intent look on his sister, but did not 
hear or did not understand her words. Then, completely lost 
in thought, he got up, went up to his mother, kissed her, went 
back to his place and sat down. 

“You love her even now?” said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, 

“Her? Now? Oh, yes.... You ask about her? No 
... that’s all now as it were, in another world ... and so 
long ago. And indeed everything happening here seems 
somehow far away.” He looked attentively at them. “You 
now ... 1 seem to be looking at you from a thousand miles 
away ... but, goodness knows why we are talking of that! 
And what’s the use of asking about it,” he added with annoy- 
ance, and biting his nails, he fell into dreamy silence again. 

“What a wretched lodging you have, Rodya! It’s like a 
tomb,” said Pulcheria Alexandrovna, suddenly breaking the 
oppressive silence. “I am sure it’s quite half through your 
lodging you have become so melancholy.” 

“My lodging,” he answered, listlessly. “Yes, the lodging 
had a great deal to do with it... . I thought that, too. ... 
If only you knew, though, what a strange thing you said just 
now, mother,” he said, laughing strangely. 

A little more, and their companionship, this mother and 
this sister, with him after three years’ absence, this intimate 
tone of conversation, in face of the utter impossibility of 
really speaking about anything, would have been beyond his 
power of endurance. But there was one urgent matter which 



must be settled one way or the other that day—so he had 
decided when he woke. Now he was glad to remember it, 
as a means of escape, 

“Listen, Dounia,”’ he began, gravely and drily, “of course 
I beg your pardon for yesterday, but I consider it my duty 
to tell you again that I do not withdraw from my chief point. 
It is me or Luzhin. If I am a scoundrel, you must not be. 
One is enough. If you marry Luzhin, I cease at once to 
look on you as a sister.” 

“Rodya, Rodya! It is the same as yesterday again,” 
Pulcheria Alexandrovna cried, mournfully. “And why do 
you call yourself a scoundrel? I can’t bear it. You ae 
the same yesterday.” 

“Brother,” Dounia answered firmly and with the pre 
dryness. “In all this there is a mistake on your part. I 
thought it over at night, and found out the mistake. It 
is all because you seem to fancy I am sacrificing myself 
to some one and for some one. That is not the case at all. 
I am simply marrying for my own sake, because things 
are hard for me. Though, of course, I shall be glad if I 
succeed in being useful to my family. But that is not the 
chief motive for my decision. ... ” 

“She is lying,” he thought to himself, biting his nails 
vindictively. “Proud creature! She won’t admit she wants 
- to do it out of charity! Too haughty! Oh, base characters! 
They even love as though they hate....Oh, howl... 
hate them all!” 

“Tn fact,” continued Dounia, “I am marrying Pyotr Petro- 
vitch because of two evils I choose the less. I intend to 
do honestly all he expects of me, so I am not deceiving him. 
. » - Why did you smile just now?” She, too, flushed, and 
there was a gleam of anger in her eyes. 

“All?” he asked with a malignant grin. 

“Within certain limits. Both the manner and form of 
Pyotr Petrovitch’s courtship showed me at once what he 
wanted. He may, of course, think too well of himself, but 
I haope he esteems me, too.... Why are you laughing 

“And why are you blushing again? You are lying, sister. 
You are intentionally lying, simply from feminine obstinacy, 



simply to hold your own against me. . . . You cannot respect 
Luzhin. I have seen him and talked with him. So you 
are selling yourself for money, and so in any case you are 
acting basely, and I am glad at least that you can blush 
for it.” 

“It is not true. I am not lying,” cried Dounia, losing 
her composure. “I would not marry him if I were not con- 
vinced that he esteems me and thinks highly of me. I would 
not marry him if I were not firmly convinced that I can 
respect him. Fortunately, I can have convincing proof of it 
this very day ... and such a marriage is not a vileness, 
as you say! And even if you were right, if I reaily had 
determined on a vile action, is it not merciless on your part 
to speak to me like that? Why do you demand of me a 
heroism that perhaps you have not either? It is despotism; 
it is tyranny. If I ruin any one, it is only myself....TI 
am not committing a murder. Why do you look at me like 
that? Why are you so pale? Rodya, darling, what’s the 
matter ?” 

“Good heavens! You have made him faint,” cried Pul- 
cheria Alexandrovna. 

“No, no, nonsense! It’s nothing. A little giddiness 
—not fainting. You have fainting on the brain. H’m, 
yes, what was I saying? Oh, yes. In what way will you 
get convincing proof to-day that you can respect him, 
and that he ... esteems you, as you said. I think you said 
to-day ?” 

“Mother, show Rodya Pyotr Petrovitch’s letter,” said 

With trembling hands, Pulcheria Alexandrovna gave him 
the letter. He took it with great interest, but, before 
opening it, he suddenly looked with a sort of wonder at 

“It is strange,” he said, slowly, as though struck by a new 
idea, “What am I making such a fuss for? What is it 
all about? Marry whom you like!” 

He said this as though to himself, but said it aloud, and 
looked for some time at his sister, as though puzzled. He 
opened the letter at last, still with the same look of strange 
wonder on his face. Then, slowly and attentively, he began 


reading, and read it through twice. Pulcheria Alexandrovna 
showed marked anxiety, and all indeed expected something 

“What surprises me,” he began, after a short pause, hand- 
ing the letter to his mother, but not addressing any one in 
particular, “is that he is a business man, a lawyer, and his 
conversation is pretentious indeed, and yet he writes such 
an uneducated letter.” 

They all started. They had expected something quite 

“But they all write like that, you know,’ Razumihin 
observed, abruptly. 
“Have you read it?” / 


“We showed him, Rodya. We... consulted him just 
now,’ Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, embarrassed. 

“That’s just the jargon of the courts,” Razumihin put in. 
“Legal documents are written like that to this day.” 

“Legal? Yes, it’s just legal—business language—not so 
very uneducated, and not quite educated—business lan- 

“Pyotr Petrovitch makes no secret of the fact that he 
had a cheap education, he is proud indeed of having made 
his own way,’ Avdotya Romanovna observed, somewhat 
- offended by her brother’s tone. 

“Well, if he’s proud of it, he has reason, I don’t deny 
it. You seem to be offended, sister, at my making only such 
a frivolous criticism on the letter, and to think that I speak 
of such trifling matters on purpose to annoy you. It is 
quite the contrary, an observation apropos of the style 
occurred to me that is by no means irrelevant as things 
stand. There is one expression, ‘blame yourselves’ put in 
very significantly and plainly, and there is besides a threat 
that he will go away at once if I am present. That threat 
to go away is equivalent to a threat to abandon you both 
if you are disobedient, and to abandon you now after sum- 
moning you to Petersburg. Well, what do you think? Can 
one resent such an expression from Luzhin, as we should 
if he (he pointed to Razumihin) had written it, or Zossimov, 
or one e of us?” 


- “N-no,” answered Dounia, with more animation. “I saw 
clearly that it was too naively expressed, and that perhaps 
he simply has no skill in writing . . . that is a true criticism, 
brother. I did not expect, indeed... ” 

“It is expressed in legal style, and sounds coarser than 
perhaps he intended. But I must disillusion you a little. 
There is one expression in the letter, one slander about me, 
and rather a contemptible one. I gave the money last night 
to the widow, a woman in consumption, crushed with trouble, 
and not ‘on the pretext of the funeral,’ but simply to pay 
for the funeral, and not to the daughter—a young woman, 
as he writes, of notorious behaviour (whom I saw last 
night for the first time in my life)—but to’the widow. In 
all this I see a too hasty desire to slander me and to raise 
dissension between us. It is expressed again in legal jargon, 
that is to say, with a too obvious display of the aim, and 
with a very naive eagerness. He is a man of intelligence, 
but to act sensibly, intelligence is not enough. It all shows 
the man and . . . I don’t think he has a great esteem for you. 
I tell you this simply to warn you, because I sincerely wish 
for your good...” 

Dounia did not reply. Her resolution had been taken. 
She was only awaiting the evening. 

“Then what is your decision, Rodya?” asked Pulcheria 
Alexandrovna, who was more uneasy than ever at the 
sudden, new businesslike tone of his talk. 

“What decision?” 

“You see Pyotr Petrovitch writes that you are not to be 
with us this evening, and that he will go away if you come 
So will you . . . come?” 

“That, of course, is not for me to decide, but for you 
first, if you are not offended by such a request; and secondly, 
by Dounia, if she, too, is not offended. I will do what you 
think best,” he added, drily. 

“Dounia has already decided, and I fully agree with her,” 
Pulcheria Alexandrovna hastened to declare. 

“I decided to ask you, Rodya, to urge you not to fail to 
be with us at this interview,’ said Dounia. “Will you 
come ?” 



“T will ask you, too, to be with us at eight o’clock,” she 
said, addressing Razumihin. “Mother, I am inviting him, 

“Quite right, Dounia. Well, since you have decided,” 
added Pulcheria Alexandrovna, “so be it. I shall feel easier 
myself. I do not like concealment and deception. Better 
let us have the whole truth. ... Pyotr Petrovitch may be 
angry or_not, now!” 


girl walked into the room, looking timidly about her 

Every one turned towards her with surprise and 
curiosity. At first sight, Raskolnikov did not recognise her. 
It was Sofya Semyonovna Marmeladov. He had seen her 
yesterday for the first time, but at such a moment, in such 
surroundings and in such a dress, that his memory retained 
a very different image of her. Now she was a modestly 
and poorly-dressed young girl, very young, indeed almost 
like a child, with a modest and refined manner, with a can- 
did but somewhat frightened-looking face. She was wear- 
ing a very plain indoor dress, and had on a shabby old- 
fashioned hat, but she still carried a parasol. Unexpectedly 
finding the room full of people, she was not so much 
embarrassed as completely overwhelmed with shyness, like 
a little child. She was even about to retreat. “Oh... it’s 
you”! said Raskolnikov, extremely astonished, and he, too, 
was confused. He at once recollected that his mother and 
sister knew through Luzhin’s letter of “some young woman of 
notorious behaviour.” He had only just been protesting 
against Luzhin’s calumny and declaring that he had seen 
the girl last night for the first time, and suddenly she had 
walked in. He remembered, too, that he had not pro- 
tested against the expression “of notorious behaviour.” All 
this passed vaguely and fleetingly through his brain, but 
looking at her more intently, he saw that the humiliated 
creature was so humiliated that he felt suddenly sorry for 
her. When she made a movement to retreat in terror, it 
sent a pang to his heart, 

“T did not expect you,” he said, hurriedly, with a look that 
made her stop. “Please sit down. You come, no doubt from 
Katerina Ivanovna. Allow me—not there. Sit here....” 

At Sonia’s entrance, Razumihin, who had been sitting on 
one of Raskolnikoy’s three chairs, close to the door, got up 


T that moment the door was softly opened, and a young 


to allow her to enter. Raskolnikov had at first shown’ her 
the place on the sofa where Zossimov had been sitting, 
but feeling that the sofa, which served him as a bed, was 
too familiar a place, he hurriedly motioned her to Razu- 
mihin’s chair. 

“You sit here,” he said to Razumihin, putting him on the 

Sonia sat down, almost shaking with terror, and looked 
timidly at the two ladies. It was evidently almost incon- 
ceivable to herself that she could sit down beside them. 
At the thought of it, she was so frightened that she hur- 
riedly got up again, and in utter confusion addressed Ras- 
kolnikov. d 

“I...I1... have come for one minute. Forgive me for 
disturbing you,” she began falteringly. “I come from 
Katerina Ivanovna, and she had no one to send. Katerina 
Ivanovna told me to beg you... to be at the service... 
in the morning... at the Mitrofanievsky ... and then 
».-to us... to her... to do her the honour .... she 
told me to beg you...” Sonia stammered and ceased 

“T will try, certainly, most certainly,” answered Raskol- 
nikov. He, too, stood up, and he, too, faltered and could 
not finish his sentence. “Please sit down,” he said, suddenly. 

“I want to talk to you. You are perhaps in a hurry, but 
please, be so kind, spare me two minutes,” and he drew up a 
chair for her. 

Sonia sat down again, and again timidly she took a hurried, 
frightened look at the two ladies, and dropped her eyes. 
Raskolnikov’s pale face flushed, a shudder passed over him, 
his eyes glowed. . 

“Mother,” he said, firmly and insistently, “this is Sofya 
Semyonovna Marmeladov, the daughter of that unfortunate 
Mr. Marmeladov, who was run over yesterday before my 
eyes, and of whom I was just telling you.” 

Pulcheria Alexandrovna glanced at Sonia, and slightly 
screwed up her eyes. In spite of her embarrassment before 
Rodya’s urgent and challenging look, she could not deny 
herself that satisfaction. Dounia gazed gravely and intently 
into the poor girl’s face, and scrutinised her with perplexity. 

1) Sea! 
NT ee 


Sonia, hearing herself introduced, tried to raise her eyes 
again, but was more embarrassed than ever. 

“T wanted to ask you,’ said Raskolnikov, hastily, “how 
things were arranged yesterday. You were not worried by 
the police, for instance?” 

“No, that was all right . . . it was too evident, the cause 
of death ... they did not worry us... only the lodgers 
are angry.” 

“Why ?” 

“At the body’s remaining so long. You see it is hot now. 
So that, to-day, they will carry it to the cemetery, into the 
chapel, until to-morrow. At first Katerina Ivanovna was un- 
willing, but now she sees herself that it’s necessary .. .” 

“To-day, then?” 

“She begs you to do us the honour to be in the church 
to-morrow for the service, and then to be present at the 
funeral lunch.” 

“She is giving a funeral lunch?” 

“Yes... just a little, ... She told me to thank you very 
much for helping us yesterday. But for you, we should have 
had nothing for the funeral.” 

All at once her lips and chin began trembling, but, with 
an effort, she controlled herself, looking down again. 

During the conversation, Raskolnikov watched her care- 
fully. She had a thin, very thin, pale little face, rather 
irregular and angular, with a sharp little nose and chin. She 
could not have been called pretty, but her blue eyes were 
so clear, and when they lighted up, there was such a kindli- 
ness and simplicity in her expression that one could not help 
being attracted. Her face, and her whole figure indeed, had 
another peculiar characteristic. In spite of her eighteen 
years, she looked almost a little girl—almost a child. And in 
some of her gestures, this childishness seemed almost absurd. 

“But has Katernia Ivanovna been able to manage with 
such small means? Does she even mean to have a funeral 
lunch?” . Raskolnikov asked, persistently keeping up the 

“The coffin will be plain, of course... and everything 
will be plain, so it won’t cost much. Katerina Ivanovna 
and I have reckoned it all out, so that there will be enough 


left ... and Katerina Ivanovna was very anxious it should 
be so. You know one can’t ... it’s a comfort to her.. ; 
she is like that, you know... .” 

“I understand, I understand ... of course... why do 
you look at my room like that? My mother has just said it 
is like a tomb.” 

“You gave us everything yesterday,” Sonia said suddenly, 
in reply, in a loud rapid whisper; and again she looked down 
in confusion. Her lips and chin were trembling once more. 
She had been struck at once by Raskolnikov’s poor surround- 
ings, and now these words broke out spontaneously. A 
silence followed. There was a light in Dounia’s eyes, and 
even Pulcheria Alexandrovna looked kindly at Sonia. 

“Rodya,” she said, getting up, “we shall have dinner 
together of course. Come, Dounia.... And you, Rodya, 
had better go for a little walk, and then rest and lie down 
before you come to see us....I1 am afraid we have ex- 
hausted you... .” 

“Yes, yes, I'll come,” he answered, getting up fussily. 
“But I have something to see to.” 

“But surely you will have dinner together?” cried Razu- 
mihin, looking in surprise at Raskolnikov. “What do you 

“Ves, yes, I am coming ... of course, of course! And 
you stay a minute. You do not want him just now, do you, 
mother? Or perhaps I am taking him from you?” 

“Oh, no, no. And will you, Dmitri Prokofitch, do us the 
favor of dining with us?” 

“Please do,” added Dounia. 

Razumihin bowed, positively radiant. For one moment, 
they were all strangely embarrassed. 

“Good-bye, Rodya, that is till we meet. I do not like 
saying good-bye. Good-bye, Nastasya. Ah, I have said 
good-bye again.” 

Pulcheria Alexandrovna meant to greet Sonia, too; but it 
Somehow failed to come off, and she went in a flutter out 
of the room. 

But Avdotya Romanovna seemed to await her turn, and 
following her mother out, gave Sonia an attentive, courteous, 
bow. Sonia, in confusion, gave a hurried, frightened curtsy. 


There was a look of poignant discomfort in her face, as 
though Avdotya Romanovna’s courtesy and attention were 
oppressive and painful to her. 

“Dounia, good-bye,” called Raskolnikov, in the passage. 
“Give me your hand.” 

“Why, I did give it you. Have you forgotten?” said 
Dounia, turning warmly and awkwardly to him. 

“Never mind, give it to me again.” And he squeezed her 
fingers warmly. 

Dounia smiled, flushed, pulled her hand away, and went 
off quite happy. 

“Come, that’s capital,” he said to Sonia, going back and 
looking brightly at her. “God give peace to the dead, the 
living have still to live. That is right, isn’t it?” 

Sonia looked surprised at the sudden brightness of his 
face. He looked at her for some moments in silence. The 
whole history of the dead father floated before his memory 
in those moments .. © 

“Heavens, Dounia,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna began, as 
soon as they were in the street, “I really feel relieved my- 
self at coming away—more at ease. How little did I think 
yesterday in the train that I could ever be glad of that.” 

“T tell you again, mother, he is still very ill. Don’t you 
see it? Perhaps worrying about us upset him. We must be 
patient, and much, much can be forgiven.” 

“Well, you were not very patient!” Pulcheria Alexan- 
drovna caught her up, hotly and jealously. “Do you know, 
Dounia, I was looking at you two. You are the very por- 
trait of him, and not so much in face as in soul. You are 
both melancholy, both morose and hot tempered, both haughty 
and both generous.... Surely he can’t be an egoist, 
Dounia. Eh? When I think of what is in store for us this 
evening, my heart sinks!” 

“Don’t be uneasy, mother. What must be, will be.” 

“Dounia, only think what a position we are in! What if 
Pyotr Petrovitch breaks it off?’ poor Pulcheria Alexan- 
drovna blurted out, incautiously. 

“He won’t be worth much if he does,” answered Dounia, 
sharply and contemptuously. 


“We did well to come away,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna 
hurriedly broke in. “He was in a hurry about some busi- 
ness or other. If he gets out and has a breath of air... 
it is fearfully close in his room. ... But where is one to 
get a breath of air here. The very streets here feel like 
shut-up rooms. Good heavens! what a town! ... stay... 
this side... they will crush you—carry something. Why 
it is a piano they have got, I declare .. . how they push... 
I am very much afraid of that young woman, too.” 

“What young woman, mother?” 

“Why that Sofya Semyonova, who was there just now.” 

“Why ?”? 

“T have a presentiment, Dounia. Well, you may believe it 
or not, but as soon as she came in, that very minute, I felt 
that she was the chief cause of the trouble. .. .” 

“Nothing of the sort!” cried Dounia, in vexation. “What 
nonsense, with your presentiments, mother! He only made 
her acquaintance the evening before, and he did not know 
her when she came in.” 

“Well, you will see.... She worries me; but you will 
see, you will see! I was so frightened. She was gazing at 
me with those eyes. I could scarcely sit still in my chair 
when he began introducing her, do you remember? It seems 
so strange, but Pyotr Petrovitch writes like that about her, 
and he introduces her to us—to you! So he must think a 
great deal of her.” 

“People will write anything. We were talked about and 
written about, too. Have you forgotten? I am sure that she 
is a good girl, and that it is all nonsense.” 

“God grant it may be!” 

“And Pyotr Petrovitch is a contemptible slanderer,” 
Dounia snapped out, suddenly. 

Pulcheria Alexandrovna was crushed; the conversation 
was not resumed. 

“I will tell you what I want with you,” 
drawing Razumihin to the window. 

“Then I will tell Katerina Ivanovna that you are coming,” 
Sonia said hurriedly, preparing to depart. 

“One minute, Sofya Semyonovna. We have no secrets, 

said Raskolnikov, 


You are not in our way. I want to have another word or 
two with you. Listen!” he turned suddenly to Razumihin 
again, “You know that... what’s his name... Porfiry 
Petrovitch ?” 

“I should think so! Heisa relation. Why?’ added the 
latter, with interest. 

“Ts not he managing that case... you know about that 
murder? ... You were speaking about it yesterday.” 

“Yes... well?” Razumihin’s eyes opened wide. 

“He was inquiring for people who had pawned things, 
and I have some pledges there, too—trifles—a ring my sister 
gave me as a keepsake when I left home, and my father’s 
silver watch—they are only worth five or six roubles alto- 
gether ... but I value them. So what am I to do now? I 
do not want to lose the things, especially the watch. I was 
quaking just now, for fear mother would ask to look at it, 
when we spoke of Dounia’s watch., It is the only thing of 
father’s left us. She would be ill if it were lost. You know 
what women are. So tell me what to do. I know I ought 
to have given notice at the police station, but would it not 
be better to go straight to Porfiry? Eh? What do you think? 
The matter might be settled more quickly. You see mother 
may ask for it before dinner.” 

“Certainly not to the police station. Certainly to Porfiry.” 
Razumihin shouted in extraordinary excitement. ‘Well, how 
glad Iam. Let us go at once. It is a couple of steps. We 
shall be sure to find him.” 

“Very well, let us go.” 

“And he will be very, very glad to make your acquain- 
tance. I have often talked to him of you at different times. 
I was speaking of you yesterday. Let us go. So you knew 
the old woman? So that’s it! It is all turning out splendidly. 
. « « Oh, yes, Sofya Ivanovna .. .” 

“Sofya Semyonovna,” corrected Raskolnikov. “Sofya 
Semyonovyna, this is my friend Razumihin, and he is a good 

“If you have to go now,” Sonia was beginning, not looking 
at Razumihin at all, and still more embarrassed. 

“Let us go,” decided Raskolnikov. “I will come to you 
to-day, Sofya Semyonovna. Only tell me where you live.” 


He was not exactly ill at ease, but seemed hurried, and 
avoided her eyes. Sonia gave her address, and flushed as 
she did so. They all went out together. 

“Don’t you lock up?” asked Razumihin, following him on 
to the stairs. 

“Never,” answered Raskolnikov. “I have been meaning 
to buy a lock for these two years. People are happy who 
have no need of locks,” he said, laughing, to Sonia. They 
stood still in the gateway. 

“Do you go to the right, Sofya Semyonovna? How did 
you find me, by the way?” he added, as though he wanted to 
say something quite different. He wanted to look at her 
soft clear eyes, but this was not easy. : 

“Why, you gave your address to Polenka yesterday.” 

“Polenka? Oh, yes; Polenka, that is the little girl. She 
is your sister? Did I give her the address?” 

“Why, had you forgotten?” 

“No, I remember.” 

“I had heard my father speak of you... only I did not 
know your name, and he did not know it. And now I came: 
.. and as I had learnt your name, I asked to-day, ‘Where 
does Mr. Raskolnikov live?’ I did not know you had 
only a room too... . Good-bye, I will tell Katerina Iva- 

She was extremely glad to escape at last; she went away 
looking down, hurrying to get out of sight as soon as pos- 
sible, to walk the twenty steps to the turning on the right 
and to be at last alone, and then moving rapidly along, look- 
ing at no one, noticing nothing, to think, to remember, to 
meditate on every word, every detail. Never, never had 
she felt anything like this. Dimly and unconsciously a 
whole new world was opening before her. She remembered 
suddenly that Raskolnikov meant to come to her that day, 
perhaps that morning, perhaps at once! 

“Only not to-day, please, not to-day!” she kept muttering 
with a sinking heart, as though entreating some one, like a 
frightened child. “Mercy! to me... to that room... he 
will see .. . oh, dear!” 

She was not capable at that instant of noticing an unknown 
gentleman who was watching her and following at her heels. 


He had accompanied her from the gateway. At the moment 
when Razumihin, Raskolnikov, and she stood still at parting 
on the pavement, this gentleman, who was just passing, 
started on hearing Sonia’s words: “and I asked where Mr. 
Raskolnikov lived?” He turned a rapid but attentive look 
upon all three, especially upon Raskolnikov, to whom Sonia 
was speaking; then looked back and noted the house. All 
this was done in an instant as he passed, and trying not to 
betray his interest, he walked on more slowly as though wait- 
ing for something. He was waiting for Sonia; he saw that 
they were parting, and that Sonia was going home. 

“Home? Where? I’ve seen that face somewhere,’ he 
thought. “I must find out.” 

At the turning he crossed over, looked round, and saw 
Sonia coming the same way, noticing nothing. She turned 
the corner. He followed her on the other side. After about 
fifty paces he crossed over again, overtook her and kept 
two or three yards behind her. 

He was a man about fifty, rather tall and thickly set, with 
broad high shoulders which made him look as though he 
stooped a little. He wore good and fashionable clothes, 
and looked like a gentleman of position. He carried a 
handsome cane, which he tapped on the pavement at each 
step; his gloves were spotless. He had a broad, rather 
pleasant face with high cheek-bones and a fresh colour, not 
often seen in Petersburg. His flaxen hair was still abun- 
dant, and only touched here and there with grey, and his 
thick square beard was even lighter than his hair. His 
eyes were blue and had a cold and thoughtful look; his lips 
were crimson. He was a remarkably well-preserved man 
and looked much younger than his years, 

When Sonia came out on the canal bank, they were the 
only two persons on the pavement. He observed her dreami- 
ness and preoccupation. On reaching the house where she 
lodged, Sonia turned in at the gate; he followed her, seeming 
rather surprised. In the courtyard she turned to the right 
corner. “Bah!” muttered the unknown gentleman, and 
mounted the stairs behind her. Only then Sonia noticed him. 
She reached the third storey, turned down the passage, and 
rang at No. 9. On the door was inscribed in chalk, “Kaper. 


naumov, Tailor.” “Bah!” the stranger repeated again, 
wondering at the strange coincidence, and he rang next door, 
at No. 8. The doors were two or three yards apart. 

“You lodge at Kapernaumov’s,” he said, looking at Sonia 
and laughing. “He altered a waistcoat for me yesterday. 
I am staying close here at Madame Resslich’s. How odd!” 
Sonia looked at him attentively. 

“We are neighbours,” he went on gaily. “I only came 
to town the day before yesterday. Good-bye for the present.” 

Sonia made no reply; the door opened and she slipped in, 
She felt for some reason ashamed and uneasy. 

On the way to Porfiry’s, Razumihin was obviously ex- 

“That’s capital, brother,” he repeated several times, “and 
I am glad! I am glad!” 

“What are you glad about?” Raskolnikov thought to 

“T didn’t know that you pledged things at that old woman’s, 
too. And... and was it long ago? I mean, was it long 
since you were there?” 

“What a simple-hearted fool he is!” 

“When was it?” Raskolnikov stopped still to recollect. 
“Two or three days before her death it must have been. But 
I am not going to redeem the things now,” he put in with a 
sort of hurried and conspicuous solicitude about the things. 
“T’ve not more than a silver rouble left . . . after last night’s 
accursed delirium!’ 

He laid special emphasis on the delirium. 

“Yes, yes,’ Razumihin hastened to agree—with what was 
not clear. “Then that’s why you... were struck... 
partly . . . you know in your delirium you were continually 
mentioning some rings or chains! Yes, yes... that’s clear, 
it’s all clear now.” 

“Hullo! How that idea must have got about among 
them. Here this man will go to the stake for me, and I find 
him delighted at having it cleared up why I spoke of rings 
in my delirium! What a hold the idea must have on all of 
them !” 

“Shall we find him?” he asked suddenly. 


“Oh, yes,” Razumihin answered quickly. “He is a nice 
fellow, you will see, brother. Rather clumsy, that is to say, 
he is a man of polished manners, but I mean clumsy in a 
different sense. He is an intelligent fellow, very much so 
indeed, but he has his own range of ideas. . . . He is incred- 
ulous, sceptical, cynical . . . he likes to impose on people, or 
rather to make fun of them. His is the old, circumstantial 
method.... But he understands his work... thor- 
oughly. ... Last year he cleared up a case of murder in 
which the police had hardly a clue. He is very, very anxious 
to make your acquaintance !” 

“On what grounds is he so anxious?” 

“Oh, it’s not exactly ... you see, since you’ve been ill 
I happen to have mentioned you several times. . . . So, when 
he heard about you... about your being a law student and 
not able to finish your studies, he said, ‘What a pity!’ And 
so I concluded . . . from everything together, not only that; 
yesterday Zametov know, Rodya, I talked some 
nonsense on the way home to you yesterday, when I was 
drunk ...I am afraid, brother, of your exaggerating it, 
you see.” 

-“What? That they think I am a madman? Maybe they 
are right,” he said with a constrained smile. 

“Yes, yes. ... That is, pooh; no! ... But all that I said 
(and there was something else too) it was all nonsense, 
drunken nonsense.” 

“But why are you apologising? I am so sick of it all!” 
Raskolnikov cried with exaggerated irritability. It was 
partly assumed, however. 

“IT know, I know, I understand. Believe me, I under- 
stand. One’s ashamed to speak of it.” 

“If you are ashamed, then don’t speak of it.” 

Both were silent. Razumihin was more than ecstatic and 
Raskolnikov perceived it with repulsion. He was alarmed, 
too, by what Razumihin had just, said about Porfiry. 

“T shall have to pull a long face with him too,” he thought, 
with a beating heart, and he turned white, “and do it nat- 
urally, too. But the most natural thing would be to do noth- 
ing at all. Carefully do nothing at all! No, carefully would 
not be natural again. . . . Oh, well, we shall see how it turns 


out. ... We shall see... directly. Is it a good thing to 
go or not? The butterfly flies to the light. My heart is 
beating, that’s what’s bad!” 

“In this grey house,” said Razumihin. 

“The most important thing, does Porfiry know that I was 
at the old hag’s flat yesterday ...and asked about the 
blood? I must find that out instantly, as soon as I go in, 
find out from his face; otherwise .. . I'll find out, if it’s my 

“I say, brother,” he said suddenly, addressing Razumihin, 
with a sly smile, “I have been noticing all day that you seem 
to be curiously excited. Isn’t it so?” 

“Excited? Not a bit of it,’ said Razumihin, stung to 
the quick. 

“Yes, brother, I assure you it’s noticeable. Why, you sat 
on your chair in a way you never, do sit, on the edge some- 
how, and you seemed to be writhing all the time. You kept 
jumping up for nothing. One moment you were angry, and 
the next your face looked like a sweetmeat. You even 
blushed; especially when you were invited to dinner, you 
blushed awfully.” 

“Nothing of the sort, nonsense! What do you mean?” 

“But why are you wriggling out of it, like a schoolboy? 
By Jove, there he’s blushing again.” 

- “What a pig you are!’ 

“But why are you so shamefaced about it? Romeo! Stay, 
I’ll tell of you to-day. Ha-ha-ha! Tll make mother laugh, 
and some one else, too .. .” 

“Listen, listen, listen, this is serious... . What next, you 
fiend!” Razumihin was utterly overwhelmed, turning cold 
with horror. “What will you tell them? Come, brother... 
foo, what a pig you are!” 

“You are like a summer rose. And if only you knew 
how it suits you; a Romeo over six foot high! And how 
you’ve washed to-day—you cleaned your nails, I declare, 
Eh? That’s something unheard of! Why, I do believe 
you’ve got pomatum on your hair! Bend down.” 

“Pig Wy 

Raskolnikov laughed as though he could not restrain him- 
self. So laughing, they entered Porfiry Petrovitch’s flat. 


This is what Raskolnikov wanted: from within they could 
be heard laughing as they came in, still guffawing in the 

“Not a word here or I'll... brain you!” Razumihin 
whispered furiously, seizing Raskolnikov by the shoulder. 


ASKOLNIKOV was already entering the room. He 
came in looking as though he had the utmost difficulty 
not to burst out laughing again. Behind him Razumi- 

hin strode in gawky and awkward, shamefaced and red as 
a peony, with an utterly crestfallen and ferocious expression. 
His face and whole figure really were ridiculous at that, 
moment and amply justified Raskolnikov’s laughter. Raskolni- 
kov, not waiting for an introduction, bowed to Porfiry Petro- 
vitch, who stood in the middle of the room looking inquir- 
ingly at them. He held out his hand and shook hands, still 
appatrently making desperate efforts to subdue his mirth and 
utter a few words to introduce himself. But he had no 
sooner succeeded in assuming a serious air and muttering 
something when he suddenly glanced again as though acci- 
dentally at Razumihin, and could no longer control himself: 
his stifled laughter broke out the more irresistibly the more 
he tried to restrain it. The extraordinary ferocity with 
which Razumihin received this “spontaneous” mirth gave the 
whole scene the appearance of most genuine fun and natural- 
ness. Razumihin strengthened this impression as though on 

“Fool! You fiend,’ he roared, waving his arm which at 
once struck a little round table with an empty tea-glass on 
it. Everything was sent flying and crashing. 

“But why break chairs, gentlemen? You know it’s a loss 
to the Crown,” Porfiry Petrovitch quoted gaily. 

Raskolnikov was still laughing, with his hand in Porfiry 
Petrovitch’s, but anxious not to overdo it, awaited the right 
moment to put a natural end to it. Razumihin, completely 
put to confusion by upsetting the table and smashing the 
glass, gazed gloomily at the fragments, cursed and turned 
sharply to the window where he stood looking out with his 
back to the company with a fiercely scowling countenance, 
seeing nothing. Porfiry Petrovitch laughed and was ready 



to go on laughing, but obviously looked for explanations. 
Zametov had been sitting in the corner, but he rose at the 
visitors’ entrance, and was standing in expectation with a 
smile on his lips, though he looked with surprise and even 
it seemed incredulity at the whole scene and at Raskolnikov 
with a certain embarrassment. Zametov’s unexpected pres- 
ence struck Raskolnikov unpleasantly. 

“I’ve got to think of that,’ he thought. “Excuse me, 
please,” he began, affecting extreme embarrassment. “Ras- 

“Not at all, very pleasant to see you ... and how pleas- 
antly you’ve come in. ... Why, won't he even say good- 
morning?” Porfiry Petrovitch nodded at Razumihin. 

“Upon my honour I don’t know why he is in such a rage 
with me. I only told him as we came along that he was 
like Romeo ... and proved it. And that was all, I think!” 

“Pig!” ejaculated Razumihin, without turning round. 

“There must have been very grave grounds for it, if he 
is so furious at the word,” Porfiry laughed. 

“Oh, you sharp lawyer! ... Damn you all!’ snapped 
Razumihin, and suddenly bursting out laughing himself, he 
went up to Porfiry with a more cheerful face as though noth- 
ing had happened. “That'll do! We are all fools. To come 
to business. This is my friend Rodion Romanovitch Ras- 
kolnikov; in the first place he has heard of you and wants 
to make your acquaintance, and secondly, he has a little mat- 
ter of business with you. Bah! Zametov, what brought you 
here? Have you met before? Have you known each other 
long ?”” 

“What does this mean?” thought Raskolnikov uneasily. 

Zametov seemed taken aback, but not very much so. 

“Why, it was at your rooms we met yesterday,” he said 

“Then I have been spared the trouble. All last week he 
was begging me to introduce him to you. Porfiry and you 
have sniffed each other out without me. Where is your 

Porfiry Petrovitch was wearing a dressing-gown, very 
clean linen, and trodden-down slippers. He was a man of 
about five and thirty, short, stout even to corpulence, and 


clean shaven. He wore his hair cut short and had a large 
round head, particularly prominent at the back. His soft, 
round, rather snub-nosed face was of a sickly yellowish 
colour, but had a vigorous and rather ironical expression. It 
would have been good-natured, except for a look in the eyes, 
which shone with a watery, mawkish light under almost white 
blinking eyelashes. The expression of those eyes was 
strangely out of keeping with his somewhat womanish figure, 
and gave it something far more serious than could be 
guessed at first sight. 

As soon as Porfiry Petrovitch heard that his visitor had a 
little matter of business with him, he begged sit down 
on the sofa and sat down himself on the other end, waiting 
for him to explain his business, with that careful and over- 
serious attention which is at once oppressive and embarrass- 
ing, especially to a stranger, and especially if what you are 
discussing is in your own opinion of far too little importance 
for such exceptional solemnity. But in brief and coherent 
phrases Raskolnikov explained his business clearly and 
exactly, and was so well satisfied with himself that he even 
succeeded in taking a good look at Porfiry. Porfiry Petro- 
vitch did not once take his eyes off him. Razumihin, sitting 
opposite at the same table, listened warmly and impatiently, 
looking from one to the other every moment with rather 
excessive interest. 

“Fool,” Raskolnikov swore to himself. 

“You have to give information to the police,” Porfiry 
replied, with a most businesslike air, “that having learnt 
of this incident, that is of the murder, you beg to inform 
the lawyer in charge of the case that such and such 
things belong to you, and that you desire to redeem 
them ...or... but they will write to you.” 

“That’s just the point, that at the present moment,” 
Raskolnikov tried his utmost to feign embarrassment, “I 
am not quite in funds... and even this trifling sum is 
beyond me...I only wanted, you see, for the present to 
declare that the things are mine, and that when I have 
ftioney.'4° 5.” 

“That’s no matter,” answered Porfiry Petrovitch, receiv- 
ing his explanation of his pecuniary position coldly, “but 


you can, if you prefer, write straight to me, to say, that 
having been informed of the matter, and claiming such and 
such as your property, you beg...” 

“On an ordinaty sheet of paper?” Raskolnikov inter- 
rupted eagerly, again interested in the financial side of the 
question. ; 

“Oh, the most ordinary,” and suddenly Porfiry Petrovitch 
looked with obvious irony at him, screwing up his eyes and 
as it were winking at him. But perhaps it was Raskolnikov’s 
fancy, for it all lasted but a moment. There was certainly 
something of the sort, Raskolnikov could have sworn he 
winked at him, goodness knows why. 

“He knows,” flashed through his mind like lightning. 

“Forgive my troubling you about such trifles,” he went 
on, a little disconcerted, “the things are only worth five 
roubles, but I prize them particularly for the sake of those 
from whom they came to me, and I must confess that I 
was alarmed when I heard...” 

“That’s why you were so much struck when I mentioned 
to Zossimov that Porfiry was inquiring for every one who 
had pledges!” Razumihin put in with obvious intention. 

This was really unbearable. Raskolnikov could not help 
glancing at him with a flash of vindictive anger in his black 
eyes, but immediately recollected himself. 

“You seem to be jeering at me, brother?” he said to him, 
with a well-feigned irritability. “I dare say I do seem to 
you absurdly anxious about such trash; but you mustn’t — 
think me selfish or grasping for that, and these two things 
may be anything but trash in my eyes. I told you just now 
that the silver watch, though it’s not worth a cent, is the 
only thing left us of my father’s. You may laugh at me, 
but my mother is here,” he turned suddenly to Porfiry, “and 
if she knew,” he turned again hurriedly to Razumihin, care- 
fully making his voice tremble, “that the watch was lost, 
she would be in despair! You know what women are!” 

“Not a bit of it! I didn’t mean that at all! Quite the 
contrary!” shouted Razumihin distressed. 

“Was it right? Was it natural? Did I overdo it?” 
Raskolnikov asked himself in a tremor. “Why did I say 
that about women?” 


“Oh, your mother is with you?” Porfiry Petrovitch 

“Ves ** 

“When did she come?” 

“Last night.” 

Parfiry paused as though reflecting. 

“Your things would not in any case be lost,’ he went on 
calmly and coldly. “I have been expecting you here for 
some time.” 

And as though that was a matter of no importance, he 
carefully offered the ash-tray to Razumihin, who was ruth- 
lessly scattering cigarette ash over the carpet. Raskolniko 
shuddered, but Porfiry did not seem to be looking at him, 
and was still concerned with Razumihin’s cigarette. 

“What? Expecting him? Why, did you know that he 
had pledges there?” cried Razumihin. 

Porfiry Petrovitch addressed himself to Raskolnikov. 

“Your things, the ring and the watch, were wrapped up 
together, and on the paper your name was legibly written 
in pencil, together with the date on which you left them 
with her... .” 

“How observant you are!” Raskolnikov smiled awkwardly, 

doing his very utmost to look him straight in the face, but 
he failed, and suddenly added: 
_ “T say that because I suppose there were a great many 
pledges that it must be difficult to remember 
them all.... But you remember them all so clearly, 
BN! 6s si OM ee, 

“Stupid! Feeble!” he thought. “Why did I add that?” 

“But we know all who had pledges, and you are the only 
one who hasn’t come forward,’ Porfiry answered with 
hardly perceptible irony. 

“T haven’t been quite well.” 

“T heard that too. I heard, indeed, that you were in 
great distress about something. You look pale still.” 

“T am not pale at all....No, I am quite well,” 
Raskolnikov snapped out rudely and angrily, completely 
changing his tone. His anger was mounting, he could not 
repress it. “And in my anger I shall betray myself,” flashed 
through his mind again. “Why are they torturing me?” 


“Not quite well!” Razumihin caught him up. “What 
next! He was unconscious and delirious till yesterday. 
Would you believe, Porfiry, as soon as our backs were 
turned, he dressed, though he could hardly stand, and gave 
us the slip and went off on the spree somewhere till mid- 
night, delirious all the time! Would you believe it! 
Extraordinary !” 

“Really delirious? You don’t say so!” Porfiry shook 
his head in a womanish way. 

“Nonsense! Don’t you believe it! But you don’t believe 
it anyway,” Raskolnikov let slip in his anger. But Porfiry 
Petrovitch did not seem to catch those strange words. 

“But how could you have gone out if you hadn’t been 
delirious?” Razumihin got hot suddenly. “What did you 
go out for? What was the object of it? And why on the. 
sly? Were you in your senses when you did it? Now that 
all danger is over I can speak plainly.” 

“I was awfully sick of them yesterday.” Raskolnikov 
addressed Porfiry suddenly with a smile of insolent defiance, 
“T ran away from them to take lodgings where they wouldn’t 
find me, and took a lot of money with me. Mr. Zametov 
there saw it. I say, Mr. Zametov, was I sensible or delirious 
yesterday; settle our dispute.” 

He could have strangled Zametov at that moment, so hate- 
ful were his expression and his silence to him. 

“In my opinion you talked sensibly and even artfully, 
but you were extremely irritable,’ Zametov pronounced 

“And Nikodim Fomitch was telling me to-day,” put in 
'Porfiry Petrovitch, “that he met you very late last night 
in the lodging of a man who had been run over.” 

“And there,” said Razumihin, “weren’t you mad then? 
You gave your last penny to the widow for the funeral. If 
you wanted to help, give fifteen or twenty even, but keep 
three roubles for yourself at least, but he flung away all 
the twenty-five at once!” 

“Maybe I found a treasure somewhere and you know 
nothing of it? So that’s why I was liberal yesterday. ... 
Mr. Zametov knows I’ve found a treasure! Excuse us, 
please, for disturbing you for half an hour with such 


trivialities,’ he said turning to Porfiry Petrovitch, with 
trembling lips. “We are boring you, aren’t we?” 

“Oh no, quite the contrary, quite the contrary! If only 
you knew how you interest me! It’s interesting to look on 
and listen ,.. and I am really glad you have come forward 
at last.” 

“But you might give us some tea! My throat’s dry,” 
cried Razumihin. | 

“Capital idea! Perhaps we will all keep you company. 
Wouldn’t you like... something more essential before 

“Get along with you!” . 

Porfiry Petrovitch went out to order tea. , 

Raskolnikov’s thoughts were in a whirl. He was in 
terrible exasperation, 

“The worst of it is they don’t disguise it; they don’t care 
to stand on ceremony! And how if you didn’t know me at 
all, did you come to talk to Nikodim Fomitch about me? 
So they don’t care to hide that they are tracking me like a 
pack of dogs. They simply spit in my face.” He was 
shaking with rage. “Come, strike me openly, don’t play 
with me like a cat with a mouse. It’s hardly civil, Porfiry 
Petrovitch, but perhaps I won’t allow it! I shall get up 
and throw the whole truth in your ugly faces, and you'll 
see how I despise you.” He could hardly breathe. “And 
what if it’s only my fancy? What if i am mistaken, and 
through inexperience I get angry and don’t keep up my 
nasty part? Perhaps it’s all unintentional. All their phrases 
are the usual ones, but there is something about them. ... 
It all might be said, but there is something. Why did he 
say bluntly, ‘With her’? Why did Zametov add that I 
spoke artfully? Why do they speak in that tone? Yes, the 
tone. ... Razumihin is sitting here, why does he see 
nothing? That innocent blockhead never does see anything! 
Feverish again! Did Porfiry wink at me just now? Of 
course it’s nonsense! What could he wink for? Are they 
trying to upset my nerves or are they teasing me? Either 
it’s all fancy or they know! Even Zametov is rude. ... Is 
Zametov rude? Zametov has changed his mind. I foresaw 
he would change his mind! He is at home here, while it’s 


my first visit. Porfiry does not consider him a visitor; sits 
with his back to him. They’re as thick as thieves, no doubt, 
over me! Not a doubt they were talking about me before 
we came. Do they know about the flat? If only they’d 
make haste! When I said that I ran away to take a flat 
he let it pass... . I put that in cleverly about a flat, it may 
be of use afterwards. ... Delirious, indeed ... ha-ha-ha! 
He knows all about last night! He didn’t know of my 
mother’s arrival! The hag had written the date on in 
pencil! You are wrong, you won’t catch me! There are 
no facts ... it’s all supposition! You produce facts! The 
flat even isn’t a fact but delirium. I know what to say to 
them. . . . Do they know about the flat? I won’t go with- 
out finding out. What did I come for? But my being 
angry now, maybe is a fact! Fool, how irritable I am! 
Perhaps that’s right; to play the invalid.... He is feeling 
me. He will try to catch me. Why did I come?” 

All this flashed like lightning through his mind. 

Porfiry Petrovitch returned quickly. He became suddenly 
more jovial. 

“Your party yesterday, brother, has left my head 
rather. .-. . And I am out of sorts altogether,” he began in 
quite a different tone, laughing to Razumihin, 

“Was it interesting? I left you yesterday at the most 
interesting point. Who got the best of it?” 

“Oh, no one, of course. They got on to everlasting ques- 
tions, floated off into space.” 

“Only fancy, Rodya, what we got on to yesterday. 
Whether there is such a thing as crime. I told you that we 
talked our heads off.” 

“What is there strange? It’s an everyday social question,” 
Raskolnikov answered casually. 

: “The question wasn’t put quite like that,” observed Por- 

“Not quite, that’s true,’ Razumihin agreed at once, 
getting warm and hurried as usual. “Listen, Rodion, and 
tell us your opinion, I want to hear it. I was fighting tooth 
and nail with them and wanted you to help me. I told 
them you were coming. ...It began with the socialist 
doctrine. You know their doctrine; crime is a protest 



against the abnormality of the social organisation and 
nothing more, and nothing more; no other causes 
admitted! .. .” 

“You are wrong there,” cried Porfiry Petrovitch; he was 
noticeably animated and kept laughing as he looked at 
Razumihin, which made him more excited than ever. 

“Nothing is admitted,” Razumihin interrupted with heat. 
“T am not wrong. I'll show you their pamphlets. Every- 
thing with them is ‘the influence of environment,’ and 
nothing else. Their favourite phrase! From which it 
follows that, if society is normally organised, all crime 
will cease at once, since there will be nothing to protest 
against and all men will become righteous in one instant. 
Human nature is not taken into account, it is excluded, it’s 
not supposed to exist! They don’t recognise that humanity, 
developing by a historical living process, will become at last 
a normal society, but they believe that a social system that 
has come out of some mathematical brain is. going to 
organise all humanity at once and make it just and sinless 
in an instant, quicker than any living process! That’s why 
they instinctively dislike history, ‘nothing but ugliness and 
stupidity in it,’ and they explain it all as stupidity! That’s 
why they so dislike the living process of life; they don’t 
want a living soul! The living soul demands life, the soul 
won’t obey the rules of mechanics, the soul is an object of 
suspicion, the soul is retrograde! But what they want 
though it smells of death and can be made of india-rubber, 
at least is not alive, has no will, is servile and won’t revolt! 
And it comes in the end to their reducing everything to the 
building of walls and the planning of rooms and passages 
in a phalanstery! The phalanstery is ready, indeed, but 
your human nature is not ready for the phalanstery—it 
wants life, it hasn’t completed its vital process, it’s too soon © 
for the graveyard! You can’t skip over nature by logic. 
Logic presupposes three possibilities, but there are millions! 
Cut away a million, and reduce it all to the question of 
comfort! That’s the easiest solution of the problem! It’s 
seductively clear and you mustn’t think about it. That’s 
the great thing, you mustn’t think! The whole secret of 
life in two pages of print!” 



“Now he is off, beating the drum! Catch hold of him, 
do!” laughed Porfiry. “Can you imagine,” he turned to 
Raskolnikov, “six people holding forth like that last night, 
in one room, with punch as a preliminary! No, brother, 
you are wrong, environment accounts for a great deal in 
crime; I can assure you of that.” 

“Oh, I know it does, but just tell me: a man of forty 
violates a child of ten; was it environment drove him 
to it?” 

“Well, strictly speaking, it did,’ Porfiry observed with 
noteworthy gravity; “a crime of that nature may be very 
well ascribed to the influence of environment.” 

Razumihin was almost in a frenzy. “Oh, if you like,” he 
roared, “I’ll prove to you that your white eyelashes may very 
well be ascribed to the Church of Ivan the Great’s being two 
hundred and fifty feet high, and I will prove it clearly, 
exactly, progressively, and even with a Liberal tendency! 
I undertake to! Will you bet on it?” 

“Done! Let’s hear, please, how he will prove it!” 

“He is always humbugging, confound him,” cried Razu- 
mihin, jumping up and gesticulating. ‘What’s the use of 
talking to you! He does all that on purpose; you don’t know 
him, Rodion! He took their side yesterday, simply to make 
fools of them. And the things he said yesterday! And they 
were delighted! He can keep it up for a fortnight together. 
Last year he persuaded us that he was going into a monas- 
tery: he stuck to it for two months. Not long ago he took 
it into his head to declare he was going to get married, that 
he had everything ready for the wedding. He ordered new 
clothes indeed. We all began to congratulate him. There 
was no bride, nothing, all pure fantasy !” 

“Ah, you are wrong! I got the clothes before. It was the 
new clothes in fact that made me think of taking you in.” 

“Are you such a good dissembler?” Raskolnikov asked 

“You wouldn’t have supposed it, eh? Wait a bit, I shall 
take you in, too. Ha-ha-ha! No, I'll tell you the truth. All 
these questions about crime, environment, children, recall to 
my mind an article of yours which interested me at the time. 
‘On Crime .. . or something of the sort, I forget the title, 


I read it with pleasure two months ago in the Periodical 

“My article? In the Periodical Review?” Raskolnikov 
asked in astonishment. “I certainly did write an article upon 
a book six months ago when I left the university, but I sent 
it to the Weekly Review.” 

“But it came out in the Periodical.” 

“And the Weekly Review ceased to exist, so that’s why it 
wasn’t printed at the time.” 

“That’s true; but when it ceased to exist, the Weekly Re- 
view was amalgamated with the Periodical, and so your 
article appeared two months ago in the latter. Didn’t you 
know ?” y 

Raskolnikov had not known. 

“Why, you might get some money out of them for the 
article! What a strange person you are! You lead such a 
solitary life that you know nothing of matters that concern 
you directly. It’s a fact, I assure you.” 

“Bravo, Rodya! I knew nothing about it either!” cried 
Razumihin. “I'll run to-day to the reading-room and ask 
for the number. Two months ago? What was the date? 
It doesn’t matter though, I will find it. Think of not telling 
us !” 

“How did you find out that the article was mine? It’s 
only signed with an initial.” 

“I only learnt it by chance, the other day. Through the 
editor; I know him. ... 1 was very much interested.” 

“T analysed, if I remember, the psychology of a criminal 
before and after the crime.” 

“Yes, and you maintained that the perpetration of a crime 
is always accompanied by illness. Very, very original, but 
... it was not that part of your article that interested me 
so much, but an idea at the end of the article which I regret 
to say you merely suggested without working it out clearly. 
There is, if you recollect, a suggestion that there are certain 
persons who can... that is, not precisely are able to, but 
have a perfect right to commit breaches of morality and 
crimes, and that the law is not for them.” 

Raskolnikov smiled at the exaggerated and intentional dise 
tortion of his idea. 


“What? What do you mean? A right to crime? But not 
because of the influence of environment?” Razumihin in- 
quired with some alarm even. 

“No, not exactly because of it,” answered Porfiry. “In his 
article all men are divided into ‘ordinary’ and ‘extraordinary.’ 
Ordinary men have to live in submission, have no right to 
transgress the law, because, don’t you see, they are ordinary. 
But extraordinary men have a right to commit any crime 
and to transgress the law in any way, just because they are 
extraordinary. That was your idea, if I am not mistaken?” 

“What do you mean? That can’t be right?” Razumihin 
muttered in bewilderment. 

Raskolnikov smiled again. He saw the point at once, and 
knew where they wanted to drive him. He decided to take 
up the challenge. 

“That wasn’t quite my contention,” he began simply and 
modestly. “Yet I admit that you have stated it almost cor- 
rectly; perhaps, if you like, perfectly so.” (It almost gave 
him pleasure to admit this.) “The only difference is that I 
don’t contend that extraordinary people are always bound to 
commit breaches of morals, as you call it. In fact, I doubt 
whether such an argument could be published. I simply 
hinted that an ‘extraordinary’ man has the right .. . that is 
not an official right, but an inner right to decide in his own 
conscience to overstep ... certain obstacles, and only in 
case it is essential for the practical fulfilment of his idea 
(sometimes, perhaps, of benefit to the whole of humanity). 
You say that my article isn’t definite; I am ready to make 
it as clear as I can. Perhaps I am right in thinking you 
want me to; very well. I maintain that if the discoveries of 
Kepler and Newton could not have been made known except 
by sacrificing the lives of one, a dozen, a hundred, or more 
men, Newton would have had the right, would indeed have 
been in duty bound ... to eliminate the dozen or the hun- 
dred men for the sake of making his discoveries known to 
the whole of humanity. But it does not follow from that that 
Newton had a right to murder people right and left and to 
steal every day in the market. Then, I remember, I maintain 
in my article that all ... well, legislators and leaders of 
men, such as Lycurgus, Solon, Mahomet, Napoleon, and so 


on, were all without exception criminals, from the very fact 
that, making a new law they transgressed the ancient one, 
handed down from their ancestors and held sacred by the 
people, and they did not stop short at bloodshed either, if that 
bloodshed—often of innocent persons fighting bravely in 
defence of ancient law—were of use to their cause. It’s 
remarkable, in fact, that the majority, indeed, of these bene- 
factors and leaders of humanity were guilty of terrible 
carnage. In short, I maintain that all great men or even 
men a little out of the common, that is to say capable of 
giving some new word, must from their very nature be 
criminals—more or less, of course. Otherwise it’s hard for 
them to get out of the common rut; and to remain in the 
common rut is what they can’t submit to, from their very 
nature again, and to my mind they ought not, indeed, to sub- 
mit to it. You see that there is nothing particularly new in 
all that. The same thing has been printed and read a thou- 
sand times before. As for my division of people into 
ordinary and extraordinary, I acknowledge that it’s some- 
what arbitrary, but I don’t insist upon exact numbers. I only 
believe in my leading idea that men are in general divided 
by a law of nature into two categories, inferior (ordinary), . 
that is, so to say, material that serves only to reproduce its 
kind, and men who have the gift or the talent to utter a new 
‘word. ‘There are, of course, innumerable sub-divisions, but 
the distinguishing features of both categories are fairly well 
marked. The first category, generally speaking, are men con- 
servative in temperament and law-abiding; they live under 
control and love to be controlled. To my thinking it is their 
duty to be controlled, because that’s their vocation, and 
there is nothing humiliating in it for them. The second 
category all transgress the law; they are destroyers or dis- 
posed to destruction according to their capacities. The 
crimes of these men are of course relative and varied; for 
the most part they seek in very varied ways the destruction 
of the present for the sake of the better. But if such a one 
is forced for the sake of his idea to step over a corpse or 
wade through blood, he can, I maintain, find within himself, 
in his conscience, a sanction for wading through blood—that 
depends on the idea and its dimensions, note that. It’s only in 


that sense I speak of their right to crime in my article (you 
remember it began with the legal question). There’s no 
need for much anxiety, however; the masses will scarcely 
ever admit this right, they punish them or hang them (more 
or less), and in doing so fulfil quite justly their conservative 
vocation. But the same masses set these criminals on a 
pedestal in the next generation and worship them (more or 
less). The first category is always the man of the present, 
the second the man of the future. The first preserve the 
world and people it, the second move the world and lead it 
to its goal. Each class has an equal right to exist. In 
fact, all have equal rights with me—and vive la guerre éier- 
nelle—till the New Jerusalem, of course!” 

“Then you believe in the New Jerusalem, do you?” 

“T do,” Raskolnikov answered firmly; as he said these 
words and during the whole preceding tirade he kept his eyes 
on one spot on the carpet. 

“And...and do you believe in God? Excuse my 

“I do,’ repeated Raskolnikov, raising his eyes to Porfiry. 

And you believe in Lazarus’ rising from the 
dead ?” | 

“IT ...I1 do. Why do you ask all this?” 

“You believe it literally?” 


“You don’t say so.... 1 asked from curiosity. Excuse 
me. But let us go back to the question; they are not always 
executed. Some, on the contrary ...” 

“Triumph in their lifetime? Oh yes, some attain their 
ends in this life, and then. . .” 

“They begin executing other people?” 

“Tf it’s necessary; indeed, for the most part they do. Your 
remark is very witty.” 

“Thank you. But tell me this: how do you distinguish 
those extraordinary people from the ordinary ones? Are 
there signs at their birth! I feel there ought to be more 
exactitude, more external definition. Excuse the natural 
anxiety of a practical law-abiding citizen, but couldn’t they 
adopt a special uniform, for instance, couldn’t they wear 
something, be branded in some way? For you know if con- 



fusion arises and a member of one category imagines that 
he belongs to the other, begins to ‘eliminate obstacles’ as you 
so happily expressed it, then .. .” 

“Oh, that very often happens! That remark is wittier than 
the other.” 

“Thank you.” 

“No reason to; but take note that the mistake can only 
arise in the first category, that is among the ordinary people 
(as I perhaps unfortunately called them). In spite of their 
predisposition to obedience very many of them, through a 
playfulness of nature, sometimes vouchsafed even to the cow, 
like to imagine themselves advanced people, ‘destroyers,’ and 
to push themselves into the ‘new movement,’ and this quite 
sincerely. Meanwhile the really new people are very often un- 
observed by them, or even despised as reactionaries of grovel- 
ling tendencies. But 1 don’t think there is any considerable 
danger here, and you really need not be uneasy for they 
never go very far. Of course, they might have a thrashing 
sometimes for letting their fancy run away with them and to 
teach them their place, but no more; in fact, even this isn’t 
necessary as they castigate themselves, for they are very 
conscientious: some perform this service for one another 
and others chastise themselves with their own hands.... 
They will impose various public acts of penitence upon 
themselves with a beautiful and edifying effect; in fact you’ve 
nothing to be uneasy about. .. . It’s a law of nature.” 

“Well, you have certainly set my mind more at rest on that 
score; but there’s another thing worries me. Tell me, please, 
are there many people who have the right to kill others, these 
extraordinary people? I am ready to bow down to them, of 
course, but you must admit it’s alarming if there are a great 
many of them, eh?” 

“Oh, you needn’t worry about that either,” Raskolnikov 
went on in the same tone. “People with new ideas, people 
with the faintest capacity for saying something new, are 
extremely few in number, extraordinarily so in fact. One 
thing only is clear, that the appearance of all these grades 
and subdivisions of men must follow with unfailing regu- 
larity some law of nature. That law, of course, is unknown 
at present, but I am convinced that it exists, and one day 


may become known. The vast mass of mankind is mere 
material, and only exists in order by some great effort, by 
some mysterious process, by means of some crossing of races 
and stocks, to bring into the world at last perhaps one man 
out of a thousand with a spark of independence. One in 
ten thousand perhaps—I speak roughly, approximately—is 
born with some independence, and with still greater inde- 
pendence one in a hundred thousand. The man of genius is 
one of millions, and the great geniuses, the crown of human- 
ity, appear on earth perhaps one in many thousand millions. 
In fact I have not peeped into the retort in which all this 
takes place. But there certainly is and must be a definite 
law, it cannot be a matter of chance.” 

“Why, are you both joking?” Razumihin cried at last. 
“There you sit, making fun of one another. Are you serious, 

Raskolnikov raised his pale and almost mournful face and 
made no reply. And the unconcealed, persistent, nervous, 
and discourteous sarcasm of Porfiry seemed strange to Razu- 
mihin beside that quiet and mournful face. 

“Well, brother, if you are really serious... You are 
right, of course, in saying that it’s not new, that it’s like 
what we've read and heard a thousand times already; but 
what is really original in all this, and is exclusively your 
own, to my horror, is that you sanction bloodshed in the name 
of conscience, and, excuse my saying so, with such fanati- 
cism. ... That, I take it, is the point of your article. But 
that sanction of bloodshed by conscience is to my mind... 
more terrible than the official, legal sanction of blood- 
Ps aN ee 

“You are quite right, it is more terrible,’ Porfiry agreed. 

“Yes, you must have exaggerated! There is some mistake. 
I shall read it. You can’t think that! I shall read it.” 

“All that is not in the article, there’s only a hint of it,” 
said Raskolnikov. 

“Yes, yes.” Porfiry couldn’t sit still. “Your attitude to 
crime is pretty clear to me now, but . . . excuse me for my 
impertinence (I am really ashamed to be worrying you like 
this), you see, you’ve removed my anxiety as to the two 
grades’ getting mixed, but ... there are various practical 


possibilities that make me uneasy! What if some man or 
youth imagines that he is a Lycurgus or Mahomet—a future 
one, of course—and suppose he begins to remove all ob- 
stacles. ... He has some great enterprise before him and 
needs money for it . . . and tries to get it .. . do you see?” 

Zametov gave a sudden guffaw in his corner. Raskolnikov 
did not even raise his eyes to him. 

“T must admit,” he went on calmly, “that such cases cer- 
tainly must arise. The vain and foolish are particularly apt 
to fall into that snare; young people especially.” 

“Yes, you see. Well then?” 

“What then?” Raskolnikov smiled in reply; “that’s not my 
fault. So it is and so it always will be. He said just now 
(he nodded at Razumihin) that I sanction bloodshed. Society 
is too well protected by prisons, banishment, criminal investi- 
gators, penal servitude.. There’s no need to be uneasy. You 
have but to catch the thief.” 

“And what if we do catch him?” 

“Then he gets what he deserves.” 

“You are certainly logical. But what of his conscience?” 

“Why do you care about that?” 

“Simply from humanity.” 

“If he has a conscience he will suffer for his mistake. 
That will be his punishment—as well as the prison.” 

“But the real geniuses,” asked Razumihin frowning, “those 
who have the right to murder? Oughtn’t they to suffer at 
all even for the blood they’ve shed?” 

“Why the word ought? It’s not a matter of permission or 
prohibition. He will suffer if he is sorry for his victim. 
Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelli- 
gence and a deep heart. The really great men must, I think, 
have great sadness on earth,” he added dreamily, not in the 
tone of the conversation. 

He raised his eyes, looked earnestly at them all, smiled, 
and took his cap. He was too quiet by comparison with 
his manner at his entrance, and he felt this. Every one 
got up. | 

“Well, you may abuse me, be angry with me if you like,” 
Porfiry Petrovitch began again, “but I can’t resist. Allow me 
one little question (I know I am troubling you). There is 


just one little notion I want to express, simply that I may 
not forget it.” 

“Very good, tell me your little notion,” Raskolnikov stood 
waiting, pale and grave before him. 

“Well, you see .. . I really don’t know how to express it 
properly. ... It’s a playful, psychological idea... . When 
you were writing your article, surely you couldn’t have 
helped, he-he, fancying yourself ... just a little, an ‘ex- 
traordinary’ man, uttering a new word in your sense... . 
That’s so, isn’t it?” 

“Quite possibly,” Raskolnikov answered contemptuously. 

Razumihin made a movement. 

“And if so, could you bring yourself in case of worldly 
difficulties and hardship or for some service to human- 
ity—to overstep obstacles? ... For instance, to rob and 
murder ?” 

And again he winked with his left eye, and laughed noise- 
lessly just as before. 

“Tf I did I certainly should not tell you,” Raskolnikov 
answered with defiant and haughty contempt. 

“No, I was only interested on account of your article, from 
a literary point of view... .” 

“Foo, how obvious and insolent that is, 
thought with repulsion. 

“Allow me to observe,” he answered dryly, “that I don’t 
consider myself a Mahomet or a Napoleon, nor any person- 
age of that kind, and not being one of them I cannot tell 
you how I should act.” 

“Oh come, don’t we all think ourselves Napoleons now in 
Russia?” Porfiry Petrovitch said with alarming familiarity. 

Something peculiar betrayed itself in the very intonation 
of his voice. 

“Perhaps it was one of these future Napoleons who did for 
Alyona Ivanovna last week?” Zametov blurted out from 
the corner. 

Raskolnikov did not speak, but looked firmly and intently 
at Porfiry. Razumihin was scowling gloomily. He seemed 
before this to be noticing something. He looked angrily 
around. There was a minute of gloomy silence. Raskolnikov 
turned to go. 




“Are you going already?” Porfiry said amiably, holding 
out his hand with excessive politeness. “Very, very glad 
of your acquaintance. As for your request, have no uneasi- 
ness, write just as I told you, or, better still, come to me 
there yourself in a day or two... to-morrow, indeed. I 
shall be there at eleven o'clock for certain. We'll arrange 
it all; we'll have a talk. As one of the last to be there, you 
might perhaps be able to tell us something,” he added with a 
most good-natured expression. 

“You want to cross-examine me officially in due form?” 
Raskolnikov asked sharply. 

“Oh, why? ‘That’s not necessary for the present. You 
misunderstand me. I lose no opportunity, you see, and... 
I’ve talked with all who had pledges. . . . I obtained evidence 
from some of them, and you are the last.... Yes, by the 
way,” he cried, seeming suddenly delighted, “I just remem- 
ber, what was I thinking of?” he turned to Razumihin, “you 
were talking my ears off about that Nikolay ... of course, 
I know, I know very well,” he turned to Raskolnikov, “that 
the fellow is innocent, but what is one to do? We had to 
trouble Dmitri too. ... This is the point, this is all: when 
you went up the stairs it was past seven, wasn’t it ?” 

“Yes,” answered Raskolnikov, with an unpleasant sensa- 
tion at the very moment he spoke that he need not have 
said it. 

“Then when you went upstairs between seven and eight, 
didn’t you see in a flat that stood open on a second storey, 
do you remember, two workmen or at least one of them? 
They were painting there, didn’t you notice them? It’s very, 
very important for them.” 

“Painters? No, I didn’t see them,” Raskolnikov answered 
slowly, as though ransacking his memory, while at the same 
instant he was racking every nerve, almost swooning with 
anxiety to conjecture as quickly as possible where the trap 
lay and not to overlook anything. “No, I didn’t see them, 
and I don’t think I noticed a flat like that open... . But 
on the fourth storey” (he had mastered the trap now and 
was triumphant) “I remember now that some one was mov- 
ing out of the flat opposite Alyona Ivanovna’s. ... I remem- 
ber ... I remember it clearly. Some porters were carrying 


out a sofa and they squeezed me against the wall. But 
painters, I don’t remember that there were any 
painters, and I don’t think that there was a flat open any- 
where, no there wasn’t.” 

“What do you mean?” Razumihin shouted suddenly, as 
though he had reflected and realised. “Why, it was on the 
day of the murder the painters were at work, and he was 
there three days before? What are you asking?” 

“Foo! I have muddled it!” Porfiry slapped himself on 
the forehead. “Deuce take it! This business is turning my 
brain!” he addressed Raskolnikov somewhat apologetically. 
“Tt would be such a great thing for us to find out whether 
any one had seen them between seven and eight at the flat, 
so I fancied you could perhaps have told us something. ... 
I quite muddled it.” 

“Then you should be more careful,” Razumihin observed 

The last words were uttered in the passage. Porfiry 
Petrovitch saw them to the door with excessive politeness. 

They went out into the street gloomy and sullen, and for 
some steps they did not say a word. Raskolnikov drew a 
deep breath. 


= DON’T believe it, I can’t believe it!” repeated Razu- 
| mihin, trying in perplexity to refute Kaskolnikov’s 

They were by now approaching Bakaleyev’s lodgings 
where Pulcheria Alexandrovna and Dounia had been expect- 
ing them a long while. Razumihin kept stopping on the way 
in the heat of discussion, confused and excited by the very 
fact that they were for the first time speaking openly about 

“Don’t believe it, then!” answered Raskolnikov, with a 
cold, careless smile. “You were noticing nothing as usual, 
but I was weighing every word.” 

“You are suspicious. That is why you weighed their 
words... h’m... certainly, I agree, Porfiry’s tone was 
rather strange, and still more that wretch Zametov!... 
You are right, there was something about him—but why? 

“He has changed his mind since last night.” 

“Quite the contrary! If they had that brainless idea, they 
would do their utmost to hide it, and conceal their cards, so 
as to catch you afterwards. ... But it was all impudent 
and careless.” 

“Tf they had had facts—I mean, real facts—or at least 
grounds for suspicion, then they would certainly have tried 
to hide their game, in the hope of getting more (they would 
have made a search long ago besides). But they have no 
facts, not one. It is all mirage—all ambiguous. Simply a 
floating idea. So they try to throw me out by impudence. 
And perhaps, he was irritated at having no facts, and blurted 
it out in his vexation—or perhaps he has some plan ... he 
seems an intelligent man. Perhaps he wanted to frighten — 
me by pretending to know. They have a psychology of 
their own, brother. But it is loathsome explaining it all. 
Stop !” 



“And it’s insulting, insulting! I understand you. But... 
since we have spoken openly now (and it is an excellent 
thing that we have at last—I am glad) I will own now 
frankly that I noticed it in them long ago, this idea. Of 
course the merest hint only—an insinuation—but why an 
insinuation even? How dare they? What foundation have 
they? If only you knew how furious I have been. Think 
only! Simply because a poor student, unhinged by poverty 
and hypochondria, on the eve of a severe delirious illness 
(note that), suspicious, vain, proud, who has not seen a soul 
to speak to for six months, in rags and in boots without 
soles, has to face some wretched policemen and put up with 
their insolence; and the unexpected debt thrust under his 
nose, the 1.0. U. presented by Tchebarov, the new paint, thirty 
degrees Reaumur and a stifling atmosphere, a crowd of peo- 
ple, the talk about the murder of a person: where he had 
been just before, and all that on an empty stomach—he might 
well have a fainting fit! And that, that is what they found 
it all on! Damn them! I understand how annoying it is, 
but in your place, Rodya, I would laugh at them, or better 
still, spit in their ugly faces, and spit a dozen times in all 
directions. I’d hit out in all directions, neatly too, and so I’d 
put an end to it. Damn them! Don’t be downhearted. It’s 
a shame!” 

“He really has put it well, though,” Raskolnikov thought. 

“Damn them? But the cross-examination again, to- 
morrow?” he said with bitterness. “Must I really enter 
into explanations with them? I feel vexed as it is, that I 
condescended to speak to Zametov yesterday in the restau- 

“Damn it! I will go myself to Porfiry, I will squeeze it out 
of him, as one of the family: he must let me know the ins 
and outs of it all! And as for Zametov .. .” 

“At last he sees through him!” thought Raskolnikov. 

“Stay!” cried Razumihin, seizing him by the shoulder 
again. “Stay! you were wrong. I have thought it out. You 
are wrong! How was that a trap? You say that the ques- 
tion about the workmen was a trap. But if you had done 
that, could you have said you had seen them painting the 
flat... and the workmen? On the contrary, you would 


have seen nothing, even if you had seen it. Who would own 
it against himself?” 

“If I had done that thing, I should certainly have said that 
I had seen the workmen and the flat,’ Raskolnikov answered, 
with reluctance and obvious disgust. 

“But why speak against yourself?” 

“Because only peasants, or the most inexperienced novices 
deny everything flatly at examinations. If a man is ever so 
little developed and experienced, he will certainly try to ad- 
mit all the external facts that can’t be avoided, but will seek 
other explanations of them, will introduce some special, un- 
expected turn, that will give them another significance and, 
put them in another light. Porfiry might well reckon that 
I should be sure to answer so, and say I had seen them to 
give an air of truth, and then make some explanation.” 

“But he would have told you at once, that the workmen 
could not have been there two days before, and that there- 
fore you must have been there on the day of the murder at 
eight o'clock. And so he would have caught you over a 

“Yes, that is what he was reckoning on, that I should not 
have time to reflect, and should be in a hurry to make the 
most likely answer, and so would forget that the workmen 
could not have been there two days before.” 

“But how could you forget it?” 

“Nothing easier. It is in just such stupid things clever 
people are most easily caught. The more cunning a man is, 
the less he suspects that he will be caught in a simple thing. 
The more cunning a man is, the simpler the trap he must be 
caught in. Porfiry is not such a fool as you think. .. .” 

“He is a knave then, if that is so!” 

Raskolnikov could not help laughing. But at the very 
moment, he was struck by the strangeness of his own frank- 
ness, and the eagerness with which he had made this explana- 
tion, though he had kept up all the preceding conversation 
with gloomy repulsion, obviously with a motive, from 

“T am getting a relish for certain aspects!” he thought to 
himself. But almost at the same instant, he became suddenly 
uneasy, as though an unexpected and alarming idea had 


occurred to him. His uneasiness kept on increasing. They 
had just reached the entrance to Bakaleyev’s. 

“Go in alone!” said Raskolnikov suddenly. “I will be back 

“Where are you going? Why, we are just here.” 

“I can’t help it... . 1 will come in half an hour. Tell 

“Say what you like, I will come with you.” 

“You, too, want to torture me!” he screamed, with such 
bitter irritation, such despair in his eyes that Razumihin’s 
hands dropped. He stood for some time on the steps, look- 
ing gloomily at Raskolnikov striding rapidly away in the 
direction of his lodging. At last, gritting his teeth and 
clenching his fist, he swore he would squeeze Porfiry like a 
lemon that very day, and went up the stairs to reassure 
Pulcheria Alexandrovna, who was by now alarmed at their 
long absence. 

When Raskolnikov got home, his hair was soaked with 
sweat and he was breathing heavily. He went rapidly up 
the stairs, walked into his unlocked room and at once fast- 
ened the latch. Then in senseless terror he rushed to the 
corner, to that hole under the paper where he had put the 
things; put his hand in, and for some minutes felt carefully 
in the hole, in every crack and fold of the paper. Finding 
nothing, he got up and drew a deep breath. As he was reach- 
ing the steps of Bakaleyev’s, he suddenly fancied that some- 
thing, a chain, a stud or even a bit of paper in which they 
had been wrapped with the old woman’s handwriting on it, 
might somehow have slipped out and been lost in some 
crack, and then might suddenly turn up as unexpected, con- 
clusive evidence against him. 

He stood as though lost in thought, and a strange, humili- 
ated, half senseless smile strayed on his lips. He took his 
cap at last and went quietly out of the room. His ideas were 
all tangled. He went dreamily through the gateway. 

“Here he is himself,” shouted a loud voice. 

He raised his head. 

The porter was standing at the door of his little room and 
was pointing him out to a short man who looked like an 
artisan, wearing a long coat and a waistcoat, and looking 


at a distance remarkably like a woman. He stooped, and 
his head in a greasy cap hung forward. From his wrinkled 
flabby face he looked over fifty; his little eyes were lost in 
fat and they looked out grimly, sternly and discontentedly. 

“What is it?” Raskolnikov asked, going up to the porter. 

The man stole a look at him from under his brows and he 
looked at him attentively, deliberately; then he turned slowly 
and went out of the gate into the street without saying a 

“What is it?” cried Raskolnikov. 

“Why, he there was asking whether a student lived here, 
mentioned your name and whom you lodged with. I saw 
you coming and pointed you out and he went away. It’s 

The porter too seemed rather puzzled, but not much so, 
and after wondering for a moment he turned and went back 
to his room. 

Raskolnikov ran after the stranger, and at once caught 
sight of him walking along the other side of the street with 
the same even, deliberate step with his eyes fixed on the 
ground, as though in meditation. He soon overtook him, but 
for some time walked behind him, At last, moving on to a 
level with him, he looked at his face. The man noticed him 
at once, looked at him quickly, but dropped his eyes again; 
and so they walked for a minute side by side without ut- 
tering a word. 

“You were inquiring for me ... of the porter?” Raskol- 
nikov said at last, but in a curiously quiet voice. 

The man made no answer; he didn’t even look at him. 
Again they were both silent. 

“Why do you...come and ask for me... and say 
nothing. . . . What’s the meaning of it?” 

Raskolnikov’s voice broke and he seemed unable to artic- 
ulate the words clearly. 

The man raised his eyes this time and turned a gloomy 
sinister look at Raskolnikov. 

“Murderer!” he said suddenly in a quiet but clear and 
distinct voice. 

Raskolnikov went on walking beside him. His legs felt 
suddenly weak, a cold shiver ran down his spine, and his 


heart seemed to stand still for a moment, then suddenly began 
throbbing as though it were set free. So they walked for 
about a hundred paces, side by side in silence. 

The man did not look at him. 

“What do you mean... what is.... Who is the 
murderer?” muttered Raskolnikov hardly audibly. 

“You are a murderer,” the man answered still more artic- 
ulately and emphatically, with a smile of triumphant hatred. 
and again he looked straight into Raskolnikov’s pale face and 
stricken eyes. 

They had just reached the cross roads. The man turned 
to the left without looking behind him. Raskolnikov re- 
mained standing, gazing after him. He saw him turn round 
fifty paces away and look back at him still standing there. 
Raskolnikov could not see clearly, but he fancied that he was 
again smiling the same smile of cold hatred and triumph. 

With slow faltering steps, with shaking knees, Raskolnikov 
made his way back to his little garret, feeling chilled all 
over. He took off his cap and put it on the table, and for 
ten minutes he stood without moving. Then he sank ex- 
hausted on the sofa and with a weak’ moan of pain he 
stretched himself on it. So he lay for half an hour. 

He thought of nothing. Some thoughts or fragments of 
thoughts, some images without order or coherence floated 
before his mind—faces of people he had seen in his child- 
hood or met somewhere once, whom he would never have 
recalled, the belfry of the church at V., the billiard table ina 
restaurant and some officers playing billiards, the smell of 
cigars in some underground tobacco shop, a tavern room, 
a back staircase quite dark, all sloppy with dirty water and 
strewn with egg shells, and the Sunday bells floating in from 
somewhere. ... The images followed one another, whirl- 
ing like a hurricane. Some of them he liked and tried to 
clutch at, but they faded and all the while there was an 
oppression within him, but it was not overwhelming, some- 
times it was even pleasant. ... The slight shivering still 
persisted, but that too was an almost pleasant sensation. 

He heard the hurried footsteps of Razumihin; he closed 
his eyes and pretended to be asleep. Razumihin opened the 
door and stood for some time in the doorway as though hesi- 


tating, then he stepped softly into the room and went cau- 
tiously to the sofa. Raskolnikov heard Nastasya’s whisper: 

‘Don’t disturb him! Let him sleep. He can have his din- 
ner later.” 

“Quite so,” answered Razumihin. Both withdrew care- 
fully and closed the door. Another half-hour passed. Ras- 
kolnikov opened his eyes, turned on his back again, clasping 
his hands behind his head. 

“Who is he? Who is that man who sprang out of the 
earth? Where was he, what did he see? He has seen it all, 
that’s clear. Where was he then? And from where did he 
see? Why has he only now sprung out of the earth? And, 
how could he see? Is it possible? Hm...” continued 
Raskolnikov, turning cold and shivering, “and the jewel 
case Nikolay found behind the door—was that possible? A 
clue? You miss an infinitesimal line and you can build it 
into a pyramid of evidence! A fly flew by and saw it! Is it 
possible?” He felt with sudden loathing how weak, how 
physically weak he had become. “I ought to have known 
it,’ he thought with a bitter smile. “And how dared JI, 
knowing myself, knowing how I should be, take up an axe 
and shed blood! I ought to have known beforehand. ... 
Ah, but I did know!” he whispered in despair. At times he 
came to a standstill at some thought. 

“No, those men are not made so. The real Master to 
whom all is permitted storms Toulon, makes a massacre in 
Paris, forgets an army in Egypt, wastes half a million men 
in the Moscow expedition and gets off with a jest at Vilna. 
And altars are set up to him after his death, and so all is 
permitted. No, such people it seems are not of flesh but of 
bronze !” 

One sudden irrelevant idea almost made him laugh. Napo- 
leon, the pyramids, Waterloo, and a wretched skinny old 
woman, a pawnbroker with a red trunk under her bed—it’s 
a nice hash for Porfiry Petrovitch to digest! How can they 
digest it! It’s too inartistic. “A Napoleon creep under an 
old woman’s bed! Ugh, how loathsome!” 

At moments he felt he was raving. He sank into a state 
of feverish excitement. “The old woman is of no conse- 
quence,” he thought, hotly and incoherently. “The old 


woman was a mistake perhaps, but she is not what matters! 
The old woman was only an illness... . I was in a hurry 
to overstep. ...I1 didn’t kill a human being, but a prin- 
ciple! I killed the principle, but I didn’t overstep, I stopped 
on this side. ...I was only capable of killing. And it 
seems I wasn’t even capable of that... Principle? Why 
was that fool Razumihin abusing the socialists? They are 
industrious, commercial people; ‘the happiness of all’ is their 
case. No, life is only given to me once and I shall never 
have it again; I don’t want to wait for ‘the happiness of 
all.’ I want to live myself, or else better not live at all. 
I simply couldn’t pass by my mother starving, keeping my 
rouble in my pocket while I waited for the ‘happiness of 
all” I am putting my little brick into the happiness of all 
and so my heart is at peace. Ha-ha! Why have you let 
me slip! I only live once, I too want.... Ech, I am an 
zesthetic louse and nothing more,” he added suddenly, laugh- 
ing like a madman. “Yes, I am certainly a louse,” he 
went on, clutching at the idea, gloating over it and playing 
with it with vindictive pleasure. “In the first place, because 
I can reason that I am one, and secondly, because for a 
month past I have been troubling benevolent Providence, 
calling it to witness that not for my own fleshly lusts did I 
undertake it, but with a grand and noble object—ha-ha! 
Thirdly, because I aimed at carrying it out as justly as 
possible, weighing, measuring and calculating. Of ail the 
lice I picked out the most useless one and proposed to take 
from her only as much as I needed for the first step, no 
more nor less (so the rest would have gone to a monastery, 
according to her will, ha-ha!). And what shows that I am 
utterly a louse,” he added, grinding his teeth, “is that I 
am perhaps viler and more loathsome than the louse I 
killed, and J felt beforehand that I should tell myself so 
after killing her. Can anything be compared with the hor- 
ror of that! The vulgarity! The abjectness! I understand 
the ‘prophet’ with his sabre, on his steed: Allah commands 
and ‘trembling’ creation must obey! The ‘prophet’ is right, 
he is right when he sets a battery across the street and blows 
up the innocent and the guilty without deigning to explain! 
It’s for you to obey, trembling creation, and not to have 


desires, for that’s not for you! ... I shall never forgive 
the old woman!” 

His hair was soaked with sweat, his quivering lips were 
parched, his eyes were fixed on the ceiling. 

“Mother, sister—how I loved them! Why do I hate them 
now? Yes, I hate them, I feel a physical hatred for them, I 
can’t bear them near me. ... 1 went up to my mother and 
kissed her, I remember. . . . To embrace her and think if 
she only knew ... shall I tell her then? That’s just what 
I might do....H’m. She must be the same as I am,” 
he added, straining himself to think, as it were struggling 
with delirium. ‘Ah, how I hate the old woman now! I 
feel I should kill her again if she came to life! Poor Liza# 
veta! Why did she come in... . It’s strange though, why 
is it I scarcely ever think of her, as though I hadn’t killed 
her! Lizaveta! Sonia! Poor gentle things, with gentle 
eyes. ... Dear women! Why don’t they weep? Why 
don’t they moan? They give up everything ... their eyes 
are soft and gentle. ... Sonia, Sonia! Gentle Sonia!” 

He lost consciousness; it seemed strange to him that he 
didn’t remember how he got into the street. It was late 
evening. The twilight had fallen and the full moon was 
shining more and more brightly; but there was a peculiar 
breathlessness in the air. There were crowds of people 
in the street; workmen and business people were making 
their way home; other people had come out for a walk; 
there was a smell of mortar, dust-and stagnant water. Ras- 
kolnikov walked along, mournful and anxious: he was dis- 
tinctly aware of having come out with a purpose, of having 
to do something in a hurry, but what it was he had for- 
gotten. Suddenly he stood still and saw a man standing on 
the other side of the street, beckoning to him. He crossed 
over to him, but at once the man turned and walked away 
with his head hanging, as though he had made no sign to 
him. “Stay, did he really beckon!” Raskolnikov wondered, 
but he tried to overtake him. When he was within ten 
paces he recognised him and was frightened; it was the 
same man with stooping shoulders in the long coat. Ras- 
kolnikov followed him at a distance; his heart was beating; 
they went down a turning; the man still did not look round. 


“Does he know I am following him?” thought Raskolnikov. 
The man went into the gateway of a big house. Raskolnikov 
hastened to the gate and looked in to see whether he would 
look round and sign to him. :In the courtyard the man did 
turn round and again seemed to beckon him. Raskolnikov 
at once followed him into the yard, but the man was gone. 
He must have gone up the first staircase. Raskolnikov 
rushed after him. He heard slow measured steps two flights 
above. The staircase seemed strangely familiar. He reached 
the window on the first floor; the moon shone through the 
panes with a melancholy and mysterious light; then he 
reached the second floor. Bah! this is the flat where the 
painters were at work ... how was it he did not recognise 
it at once? The steps of the man above had died away. 
“So he must have stopped or hidden somewhere.” He 
reached the third story, should he go on? ‘There was a 
stillness that was dreadful.... But he went on. The 
sound of his own footsteps scared and frightened him. How 
dark it was! The man must be hiding in some corner here. 
Ah! the flat was standing wide open, he hesitated and went 
in. It was very dark and empty in the passage, as though 
everything had been removed; he crept on tiptoe into the 
parlour which was flooded with moonlight. Everything there 
was as before, the chairs, the looking-glass, the yellow sofa 
and the pictures in the frames. A huge, round, copper-red 
moon looked in at the windows. “It’s the moon that makes 
it so still, weaving some mystery,” thought Raskolnikov. He 
stood and waited, waited a long while, and the more silent 
the moonlight, the more violently his heart beat, till it was 
painful. And still the same hush. Suddenly he heard a 
momentary sharp crack like the snapping of a splinter and 
all was still again. A fly flew up suddenly and struck the 
window pane with a plaintive buzz. At that moment he 
noticed in the corner between the window and the little cup- 
board something like a cloak hanging on the wall. “Why is 
that cloak here?” he thought, “it wasn’t there before. .. .” 
He went up to it quietly and felt that there was some one 
hiding behind it. He cautiously moved the cloak and saw, 
sitting on a chair in the corner, the old woman bent double 
so that he couldn’t see her face; but it was she. He stood 


over her. “She is afraid,” he thought. He stealthily took 
the axe from the noose and struck her one blow, then an- 
other on the skull. But strange to say she did not stir, as 
though she were made of wood. He was frightened, bent 
down nearer and tried to look at her; but she, too, bent her 
head lower. He bent right down to the ground and peeped 
up into her face from below, he peeped and turned cold with 
horror: the old woman was sitting and laughing, shaking 
with noiseless laughter, doing her utmost that he should 
not hear it. Suddenly he fancied that the door from the 
bedroom was opened a little and that there was laughter and 
whispering within. He was overcome with frenzy and he 
began hitting the old woman on the head with all his force 
but at every blow of the axe the laughter and whispering 
from the bedroom grew louder and the old woman was 
simply shaking with mirth. He was rushing away, but the 
passage was full of people, the doors of the flats stood open 
and on the landing, on the stairs and everywhere below there 
were people, rows of heads, all looking, but huddled together 
in silence and expectation. Something gripped his heart, his 
legs were rooted to the spot, they would not move. ... He 
tried to scream and woke up. 

He drew a deep breath—but his dream seemed strangely 
to persist: his door was flung open and a man whom he had 
never seen stood in the doorway watching him intently. 

Raskolnikov had hardly opened his eyes and he in- 
stantly closed them again. He lay on his back without 

“Ts it still a dream?” he wondered and again raised his 
eyelids hardly perceptibly; the stranger was standing in the 
same place, still watching him. 

He stepped cautiously into the room, carefully closing the 
door after him, went up to the table, paused a moment, still 
keeping his eyes on Raskolnikov, and noiselessly seated him- 
self on the chair by the sofa; he put his hat on the floor 
beside him and leaned his hands on his cane and his chin on 
his hands. It was evident that he was prepared to wait 
indefinitely. As far as Raskolnikov could make out from his 
stolen glances, he was a man no longer young, stout, with a 
full, fair, almost whitish beard. 


Ten minutes passed. It was still light, but beginning to 
get dusk. There was complete stillness in the room. Nota 
sound came from the stairs. Only a big fly buzzed and 
fluttered against the window pane. It was unbearable at 
last. Raskolnikov suddenly got up and sat on the sofa. 

“Come, tell me what you want.” 

“I knew you were not asleep, but only pretending,” the 
stranger answered oddly, laughing calmly. “Arkady Ivano- 
vitch Svidrigailov, allow me to introduce myself... .” 



_ Or this be still a dream?” Raskolnikov thought once 
more. He looked carefully and suspiciously at the, 
unexpected visitor. . 

“Svidrigailov! What nonsense! It can’t be! ” he said at 
last aloud in bewilderment. 

His visitor did not seem at all surprised at this exclama- 

“T’ve come to you for two reasons. In the first place, I 
wanted to make your personal acquaintance, as I have already 
heard a great deal about you that is interesting and flattering; 
secondly, I cherish the hope that you may not refuse to assist 
me in a matter directly concerning the welfare of your sister, 
Avdotya Romanovna. For without your support she might 
not let me come near her now, for she is prejudiced against 
me, but with your assistance I reckon on... ” 

“You reckon wrongly,” interrupted Raskolnikov. 

“They only arrived yesterday, may I ask you?” 

Raskolnikov made no reply. 

“It was yesterday, I know. I only arrived myself the day 
before. Well, let me tell you this, Rodion Romanovitch, 
I don’t consider it necessary to justify myself, but kindly tell 
me what was there particularly criminal on my part in all this 
business, speaking without prejudice, with common sense ?” 

Raskolnikov continued to look at him in silence. 

“That in my own house I persecuted a defenceless girl and 
‘insulted her with my infamous proposals’—is that it? (I am 
anticipating you.) But you’ve only to assume that I, too, am 
a man et nihil humanum ... in a word, that I am capable 
of being attracted and falling in love (which does not depend 
on our will), then everything can be explained in the most 



natural manner. The question is, am I a monster, or am I 
myself a victim? And what if lama victim? In proposing 
to the object of my passion to elope with me to America or 
Switzerland, I may have cherished the deepest respect for 
her and may have thought that I was promoting our mutual 
happiness! Reason is the slave of passion, you know; why, 
probably, I was doing more harm to myself than any one!” 

“But that’s not the point,” Raskolnikov interrupted with 
disgust. “It’s simply that whether you are right or wrong, 
we dislike you. We don’t want to have anything to do with 
you. We show you the door. Go out!” 

Svidrigailov broke into a sudden laugh. 

“But you're... but there’s no getting round you,” he 
said laughing in the frankest way. “I hoped to get round 
you, but you took up the right line at once!” 

“But you are trying to get round me still!” 

“What of it? What of it?’ cried Svidrigailov, laughing 
openly. “But this is what the French call bonne guerre, and 
the most innocent form of deception! ... But still you have 
interrupted me; one way or another, I repeat again: there 
would never have been any unpleasantness except for what 
happened in the garden. Marfa Petrovna.. .” 

“You have got rid of Marfa Petrovna, too, so they say?” 
Raskolnikov interrupted rudely. 

“Oh, you’ve heard that, too, then? You'd be sure to, 
though. . .. But as for your question, I really don’t know 
what to say, though my own conscience is quite at rest on that 
score. Don’t suppose that I am in any apprehension about it. 
All was regular and in order; the medical inquiry diagnosed 
apoplexy due to bathing immediately after a heavy dinner and 
a bottle of wine, and indeed it could have proved nothing 
else. But Ill tell you what I have been thinking to myself 
of late, on my way here in the train, especially: didn’t I 
contribute to all that ... calamity, morally, in a way, by 
irritation or something of the sort. But I came to the con- 
clusion that that, too, was quite out of the question.” 

Raskolnikov laughed. 

“T wonder you trouble yourself about it!” 

“But what are you laughing at? Only consider, I struck 
her just twice with a switch—there were no marks even... © 


don’t regard me as a cynic, please; I am perfectly aware how 
atrocious it was of me and all that; but I know for certain, 
too, that Marfa Petrovna was very likely pleased at my, so to 
say, warmth. The story of your sister had been wrung out 
to the last drop; for the last three days Marfa Petrovna had 
been forced to sit at home; she had nothing to show herself 
with in the town. Besides, she had bored them so with that 
letter (you heard about her reading the letter). And all of 
a sudden those two switches fell from heaven! Her first act 
was to order the carriage to be got out... . Not to speak of 
the fact that there are cases when women are very, very 
glad to be insulted in spite of all their show of indignation. 
There are instances of it with every one; human beings in” 
general, indeed, greatly love to be insulted, have you noticed 
that? But it’s particularly so with women. One might even 
say it’s their only amusement.” 

At one time Raskolnikov thought of getting up and walking 
out and so finishing the interview. But some curiosity and 
even a sort of prudence made him linger for a moment. 

“You are fond of fighting?” he asked carelessly. 

“No, not very,’ Svidrigailov answered, calmly. “And 
Marfa Petrovna and I scarcely ever fought. We lived very 
harmoniously, and she was always pleased with me. I only 
used the whip twice in all our seven years (not counting a 
third occasion of a very ambiguous character). The first 
time, two months after our marriage, immediately after we 
arrived in the country, and the last time was that of which 
we are speaking. Did you suppose I was such a monster, 
such a reactionary, such a slave driver? Ha, ha! By the 
way, do you remember, Rodion Romanovitch, how a few 
years ago, in those days of beneficent publicity, a nobleman, 
I’ve forgotten his name, was put to shame everywhere, in 
all the papers, for having thrashed a German woman in the 
railway train. You remember? It was in those days, that 
very year I believe, the ‘disgraceful action of the Age’ took 
place (you know, “The Egyptian Nights,’ that public reading, 
you remember? The dark eyes, you know! Ah, the golden 
days of our youth, where are they?) Well, as for the gentle- 
man who thrashed the German, I feel no sympathy with him, 
because after all what need is there for sympathy? But I 


must say that there are sometimes such provoking ‘Germans’ 
that I don’t believe there is a progressive who could quite 
answer for himself. No one looked at the subject from that 
point of view then, but that’s the truly humane point of view, 
I assure you.” 

After saying this, Svidrigailov broke into a sudden laugh 
again. Raskolnikov saw clearly that this was a man with a 
firm purpose in his mind and able to keep it to himself. 

“I expect you’ve not talked to any one for some days?” he 

“Scarcely any one. I suppose you are wondering at my 
being such an adaptable man?” 

“No, I am only wondering at your being too adaptable a 

“Because I am not offended at the rudeness of your ques- 
tions? Is that it? But why take offense? As you asked, so I 
answered,” he replied, with a surprising expression of sim- 
plicity. “You know, there’s hardly anything I take interest 
in,” he went on, as it were dreamily, “especially now, I’ve 
nothing to do. .. . You are quite at liberty to imagine though 
that I am making up to you with a motive, particularly as 
I told you I want to see your sister about something. But 
I’ll confess frankly, I am very much bored. The last three 
days especially, so am delighted to see you. ... Don’t be 
angry, Rodion Romanovitch, but you seem to be somehow 
awfully strange yourself. Say what you like, there’s some- 
thing wrong with you, and now, too ... not this very minute, 
I mean, but now, generally.... Well, well, I won't, I 
won't, don’t scowl! I am not such a bear, you know, as 
you think.” 

Raskolnikov looked gloomily at him. 

“You are not a bear, perhaps, at all,” he said. “I fancy 
indeed that you are a man of very good breeding, or at least 
know how on occasion to behave like one.” 

“T am not particularly interested in any one’s opinion,” 
Svidrigailov answered, dryly and even with a shade of 
haughtiness, “and therefore why not be vulgar at times when 
vulgarity is such a convenient cloak for our climate . .. and 
especially if one has a natural propensity that way,” he added, 
laughing again. 


But I’ve heard you have many friends here. You are, as 
they say, ‘not without connections.’ What can you want with 
me, then, unless you’ve some special object ?” 

“That’s true that I have friends here,” Svidrigailov ad- 
mitted, not replying to the chief point. “I’ve met some al- 
ready. I’ve been lounging about for the last three days, and 
I’ve seen them, or they’ve seen me. That’s a matter of 
course. JI am well-dressed and reckoned not a poor man; the 
emancipation of the serfs hasn’t affected me; my property 
consists chiefly of forests and water meadows. The revenue 
has not fallen off; but ...I am not going to see them, I 
was sick of them long ago. I’ve been here three days and, 
have called on no one. .. . What a town it is! How has it 
come into existence among us, tell me that? A town of 
officials and students of all sorts. Yes, there’s a great deal 
I didn’t notice when I was here eight years ago, kicking up 
my heels. ... My only hope now is in anatomy, by Jove, 
it is!” ) 

“Anatomy ?” 

“But as for these clubs, Dussauts, parades, or progress, 
indeed, may be—well, all that can go on without me,” he went 
on, again without noticing the question. “Besides, who wants 
to be a card-sharper ?” 

“Why, have you been a card-sharper then?” 

“How could I help being? There was a regular set of us, 
men of the best society, eight years ago; we had a fine time. 
And all men of breeding, you know, poets, men of property. 
And indeed as a rule in our Russian society the best manners 
are found among those who’ve been thrashed, have you 
noticed that? I’ve deteriorated in the country. But I did get 
into prison for debt, through a low Greek who came from 
Nezhin. Then Marfa Petrovna turned up; she bargained 
with him and bought me off for thirty thousand silver pieces 
(I owed seventy thousand). We were united in lawful wed- 
lock and she bore me off into the country like a treasure. You 
know she was five years older than I. She was very fond of 
me. For seven years I never left the country. And, take 
note, that all my life she held a document over me, the I. 0. v. 
for thirty thousand roubles, so if I were to elect to be 
restive about anything I should be trapped at once! And 


she would have done it! Women find nothing incompatible 
in that.” 

“If it hadn’t been for that, would you have given her 
the slip?” 

“I don’t know what to say. It was scarcely the document 
restrained me. I didn’t want to go anywhere else. Marfa 
Petrovna herself invited me to go abroad, seeing I was bored, 
but I’ve been abroad before, and always felt sick there. For 
no reason, but the sunrise, the bay of Naples, the sea—you 
look at them and it makes you sad. What’s most revolting is 
that one is really sad! No, it’s better at home. Here at least 
one blames others for everything and excuses oneself. I 
should have gone perhaps on an expedition to the North Pole, 
because j’ai le vin mauvais and hate drinking, and there’s 
nothing left but wine. I have tried it. But, I say, I’ve been 
told Berg is going up in a great balloon next Sunday from 
the Yusupov Garden and will take up passengers at a fee. Is 
it true?” 

“Why, would you go up?” 

“I... No, oh no,” muttered Svidrigailov, really seeming 
to be deep in thought. 

“What does he mean? Is he in earnest?” Raskolnikov 

“No, the document didn’t restrain me,” Svidrigailov went 
on, meditatively. “It was my own doing, not leaving the 
country, and nearly a year ago Marfa Petrovna gave me back 
the document on my name day and made me a present of a 
considerable sum of money, too. She had a fortune, you 
know. ‘You see how I trust you, Arkady Ivanovitch’—that 
was actually her expression. You don’t believe she used it? 
But do you know I managed the estate quite decently, they 
know me in the neighbourhood. I ordered books, too. 
Marfa Petrovna at first approved, but afterwards she was 
afraid of my over-studying.” 

“You seem to be missing Marfa Petrovna very much?” 

“Missing her? Perhaps. Really, perhaps I am. And, by 
the way, do you believe in ghosts?” 

“What ghosts?” 

“Why, ordinary ghosts.” 

“Do you believe in them?” 


“Perhaps not, pour vous plaire....I1 wouldn’t say no 

“Do you see them, then?” 

Svidrigailov looked at him rather oddly. 

“Marfa Petrovna is pleased to visit me,” he said, twisting 
his mouth into a strange smile. 

“How do you mean ‘she is pleased to visit you’ ?” 

“She has been three times. I saw her first on the very 
day of the funeral, an hour after she was buried. It was 
the day before I left to come here. The second time 
was the day before yesterday, at daybreak, on the journey 
at the station of Malaya Vishera, and the third time was. 
two hours ago in the room where I am staying. I wa$ 

“Were you awake?” 

“Quite awake. I was wide awake every time. She comes, 
speaks to me for a minute and goes out at the door—always 
at the door. I can almost hear her.” 

“What made me think that something of the sort must be 
happening to you?” Raskolnikov said suddenly. 

At the same moment he was surprised at having said it. 
He was much excited. 

“What! Did you think so?” Svidrigailov asked in aston- 
ishment. “Did you really? Didn’t I say that there was 
something in common between us, eh?” 

“You never said so!” Raskolnikov cried sharply and with 

“Didn’t I?” 

“No y? 

“T thought I did. When I came in and saw you lying with 
your eyes shut, pretending, I said to myself at once ‘here’s the 
man,’ ” 

“What do you mean by ‘the man’? What are you talking 
about?” cried Raskolnikov. 

“What do I mean? I really don’t know. . . .” Svidrigailov 
muttered ingenuously, as though he, too, were puzzled. 

For a minute they were silent. They stared in each 
other’s faces. 

“That’s all nonsense!” Raskolnikov shouted with vexation, 
“What does she say when she comes to you?” 


“She? Would you believe it, she talks of the silliest trifles 
and—man is a strange creature—it makes me angry. The 
first time she came in (I was tired you know: the funeral 
service, the funeral ceremony, the lunch afterwards. At 
last I was left alone in my study. I lighted a cigar and began 
to think), she came in at the door. ‘You’ve been so busy 
to-day, Arkady Ivanovitch, you have forgotten to wind the 
dining room clock,’ she said. All those seven years I’ve 
wound that clock every week, and if I forgot it she would al- 
ways remind me. The next day I set off on my way here. 
I got out at the station at daybreak; I’d been asleep, tired 
out, with my eyes half open, I was drinking some coffee. I 
look up and there was suddenly Marfa Petrovna sitting be- 
side me with a pack of cards in her hands. ‘Shall I tell 
your fortune for the journey, Arkady Ivanovitch?’ She 
was a great hand at telling fortunes. I shall never forgive 
myself for not asking her to. I ran away in a fright, and, 
besides, the bell rang. I was sitting to-day, feeling very 
heavy after a miserable dinner from a cookshop; I was sit- 
ting smoking, all of a sudden Marfa Petrovna again. She 
came in very smart in a new green silk dress with a long 
train. ‘Good day, Arkady Ivanovitch! How do you like 
my dress? Aniska can’t make like this. (Aniska was a 
dressmaker in the country, one of our former serf girls who 
had been trained in Moscow, a pretty wench.) She stood 
turning round before me. I looked at the dress, and then I 
looked carefully, very carefully, at her face. ‘I wonder you 
trouble to come to me about such trifles, Marfa Petrovna.’ 
‘Good gracious, you won't let one disturb you about any- 
thing!’ To tease her I said, ‘I want to get married, Marfa 
Petrovna.’ “That’s just like you, Arkady Ivanovitch; it does 
you very little credit to come looking for a bride when you’ve 
hardly buried your wife. And if you could make a good 
choice, at least, but I know it won’t be for your happiness or 
hers, you will only be a laughing-stock to all good people.’ 
Then she went out and her train seemed to rustle. Isn’t it 
nonsense, eh ?” 

“But perhaps you are telling lies?’ Raskolnikov put in. 

“I rarely lie,’ answered Svidrigailov thoughtfully, appar- 
ently not noticing the rudeness of the question. 


“And in the past, have you ever seen ghosts before?” 

“Y-yes, I have seen them, but only once in my life, six 
years ago. I had a serf, Filka; just after his burial I called 
out forgetting ‘Filka, my pipe!’ He came in and went to 
the cupboard where my pipes were. I sat still and thought 
‘he is doing it out of revenge’ because we had a violent 
quarrel just before his death. “How dare you come in with 
a hole in your elbow,’ I said. “Go away, you scamp!’ He 
turned and went out, and never came again. I didn’t tell 
Marfa Petrovna at the time. I wanted to have a service 
sung for him, but I was ashamed.” 

“You should go to a doctor.” y 

“T know I am not well, without your telling me, though 
I don’t know what’s wrong; I believe I am five times as 
strong as you are. I didn’t ask you whether you believe that 
ghosts are seen, but whether you believe that they exist.” 

“No, I won’t believe it!” Raskolnikov cried, with positive 

“What do people generally say?” muttered Svidrigailov, 
as though speaking to himself, looking aside and bowing his 
head. “They say, ‘You are ill, so what appears to you is 
only unreal fantasy.’ But that’s not strictly logical. I agree 
that ghosts only appear to the sick, but that only proves that 
they are unable to appear except to the sick, not that they 
don’t exist.” 

“Nothing of the sort,’ Raskolnikov insisted irritably. 

“No? You don’t think so?” Svidrigailov went on, look- 
ing at him deliberately. “But what do you say to this argu- 
ment (help me with it): ghosts are as it were shreds and 
fragments of other worlds, the beginning of them. A man 
in health has, of course, no reason to see them, because he 
is above all a man of this earth and is bound for the sake 
of completeness and order to live only in this life. But as 
soon as one is ill, as soon as the normal earthly order of 
the organism is broken, one begins to realise the possibility 
of another world; and the more seriously ill one is, the closer 
becomes one’s contact with that other world, so that as soon 
as the man dies he steps straight into that world. I thought 
of that long ago. If you believe in a future life, you could 
believe in that, too.” 


“T don’t believe in a future life,” said Raskolnikov. 

Svidrigailov sat lost in thought. 

“And what if there are only spiders there, or something of 
that sort,” he said suddenly. 

“He is a madman,” thought Raskolnikov. 

“We always imagine eternity as something beyond our 
conception, something vast, vast! But why must it be vast? 
Instead of all that, what if it’s one little room, like a bath 
house in the country, black and grimy and spiders in every 
corner, and that’s all eternity is? I sometimes fancy it like 
that.” ! 

“Can it be you can imagine nothing juster and more 
comforting than that?” Raskolnikov cried, with a feeling of 

“Juster? And how can we tell, perhaps that is just, and 
do you know it’s what I would certainly have made it,” 
answered Svidrigailov, with a vague smile. 

This horrible answer sent a cold chill through Raskolnikov. 
Svidrigailov raised his head, looked at him, and suddenly 
began laughing. 

“Only think,” he cried, “half an hour ago we had never 
seen each other, we regarded each other as enemies; there is 
a matter unsettled between us; we’ve thrown it aside, and 
away we've gone into the abstract! Wasn’t I right in saying 
that we were birds of a feather ?” 

“Kindly allow me,” Raskolnikov went on irritably, “to ask 
you to explain why you have honoured me with your 
visit... and ...andIam in a hurry, I have no time to 
waste. I want to go out.” 

“By all means, by all means. Your sister, Avdotya Roma- 
novna, is going to be married to Mr. Luzhin, Pyotr Petro- 
vitch ?” 

“Can you refrain from any question about my sister and 
from mentioning her name? I can’t understand how you 
dare utter her name in my presence, if you really are Svid- 

“Why, but I’ve come here to speak about her; how can 
I avoid mentioning her ?” 

“Very good, speak, but make haste.” 

“I am sure that you must have formed your own opinion 


of this Mr. Luzhin, who is a connection of mine through my 
wife, if you have only seen him for half an hour, or heard 
any facts about him. He is no match for Avdotya Roma- 
novna. I believe Avdotya Romanovna is sacrificing herself 
generously and imprudently for the sake of . . . for the sake 
of her family. I fancied from all I had heard of you that 
you would be very glad if the match could be broken off 
without the sacrifice of worldly advantages. Now I know 
you personally, I am convinced of it.” 

“All this is very naive . . . excuse me, I should have said 
impudent on your part,” said Raskolnikov. 

“You mean to say that I am seeking my own ends. Don’t 
be uneasy, Rodion Romanovitch, if I were working for my 
own advantage, I would not have spoken out so directly. I 
am not quite a fool. I will confess something psychologically 
curious about that: just now, defending my love for Avdotya 
Romanovna, I said I was myself the victim. Well, let me 
tell you that I’ve no feeling of love now, not the slightest, 
so that I wonder myself indeed, for I really did feel some- 
thing’ o" . 

“Through idleness and depravity,” Raskolnikov put in. 

“T certainly am idle and depraved, but your sister has such 
qualities that even I could not help being impressed by them. 
But that’s all nonsense, as I see myself now.” 

“Have you seen that long?” 

“T began to be aware of it before, but was only perfectly 
sure of it the day before yesterday, almost at the moment 
I arrived in Petersburg. I still fancied in Moscow, though, 
that I was coming to try to get Avdotya Romanovna’s hand 
and to cut out Mr. Luzhin.” 

“Excuse me for interrupting you; kindly be brief, and 
come to the object of your visit. I am in a hurry, I want 
to: vo out: 5B 

“With the greatest pleasure. On arriving here and deter- 
mining on a certain ... journey, I should like to make some 
necessary preliminary arrangements. I left my children with 
an aunt; they are well provided for; and they have no need 
of me personally. And a nice father I should make, too! I 
have taken nothing but what Marfa Petrovna gave me a year 
ago. That's enough for me. Excuse me, I am just coming 



to the point. Before the journey which may come off, I want 
to settle Mr. Luzhin, too. It’s not that I detest him so much, 
but it was through him I quarrelled with Marfa Petrovna 
when I learned that she had dished up this marriage. I want 
now to see Avdotya Romanovna through your mediation, and 
if you like in your presence, to explain to her that in the 
first place she will never gain anything but harm from Mr. 
Luzhin. Then begging her pardon for all past unpleasant- 
ness, to make her a present of ten thousand roubles and so 
assist the rupture with Mr. Luzhin, a rupture to which I 
believe she is herself not disinclined, if she could see the 
way to it.” 

“You are certainly mad,” cried Raskolnikov, not so much 
angered as astonished. ‘How dare you talk like that!” 

“I knew you would scream at me; but in the first place, 
though I am not rich, this ten thousand roubles is perfectly 
free; I have absolutely no need for it. If Avdotya Roman- 
ovna does not accept it, I shall waste it in some more foolish 
way. That’s the first thing. Secondly, my conscience is 
perfectly easy; I make the offer with no ulterior motive. 
You may not believe it, but in the end Avdotya Romanovna 
and you will know. The point is, that I did actually cause 
your sister, whom I greatly respect, some trouble and un- 
pleasantness, and so, sincerely regretting it, I want—not to 
compensate, not to repay her for the unpleasantness, but 
simply to do something to her advantage, to show that I am 
not, after all, privileged to do nothing but harm. If there 
were a millionth fraction of self interest in my offer, I 
should not have made it so openly; and I should not have 
offered her ten thousand only, when five weeks ago I offered 
her more. Besides, I may, perhaps, very soon marry a 
young lady, and that alone ought to prevent suspicion of 
any design on Avdotya Romanovna. In conclusion, let me 
say that in marrying Mr. Luzhin, she is taking money just 
the same, only from another man. Don’t be angry, Rodion 
Romanovitch, think it over coolly and quietly.” 

Svidrigailov himself was exceedingly cool and quiet as he 
was saying this. 

“I beg you to say no more,” said Raskolnikov. “In any 
case this is unpardonable impertinence.” 


“Not in the least. Then a man may do nothing but harm 
to his neighbour in this world, and is prevented from doing 
the tiniest bit of good by trivial conventional formalities. 
That’s absurd. If I died, for instance, and leit that sum to 
your sister in my will, surely she wouldn’t refuse it?” 

“Very likely she would.” 

“Oh, no, indeed. However, if you refuse it, so be it, 
though ten thousand roubles is a capital thing to have on 
occasion. In any case I beg you to repeat what I have said 
to Avdotya Romanovna.” 

“No, I won't.” 

“In that case, Rodion Romanovitch, I shall be obliged to 
try and see her myself and worry her by doing so.” 

“And if I do tell her, will you not try to see her?” 

“T don’t know really what to say. I should like very much 
to see her once more.” 

“Don’t hope for it.” 

“T’m sorry. But you don’t know me. Perhaps we may 
become better friends.” 

“You think we may become friends.” 
“And why not?” Svidrigailov said, smiling. He stood up 
and took his hat. “I didn’t quite intend to disturb you 
and I came here without reckoning on it ... though I was 

very much struck by your face this moraine. 4: 
_ “Where did you see me this morning?” Raskolnikov asked 

“I saw you by chance. ... I keep fancying there is some- 
thing about you like me. ... But don’t be uneasy. I am 
not intrusive; I used to get on all right with card-sharpers, 
and I never bored Prince Svirbey, a great personage who 
is a distant relation of mine, and I could write about 
Raphael’s Madonna in Madam Prilukov’s album, and I never 
left Marfa Petrovna’s side for seven years, and I used to 
stay the night at Viazemsky’s house in the Hay Market in 
the old days, and I may go up in a balloon with Berg, 

“Oh, all right. Are you starting soon on your travels, 
may I ask?” 

“What travels?” 

“Why, on that ‘journey ;’ you spoke of it yourself.” 



“A journey? Oh, yes. I did speak of a journey. Well, 
that’s a wide subject... .If only you knew what you are 
asking,’ he added, and gave a sudden, loud, short laugh. 
“Perhaps I'll get married instead of the journey. They’re 
making a match for me.” 



“How have you had time for that?” 

“But I am very anxious to see Avdotya Romanovna once, 
I earnestly beg it. Well, good-bye for the present. Oh, yes, 
I have forgotten something. Tell your sister, Rodion Ro- 
manovitch, that Marfa Petrovna remembered her in her will 
and left her three thousand roubles. That’s absolutely cer- 
tain. Marfa Petrovna arranged it a week before her death, 
and it was done in my presence. Avdotya Romanovna will 
be able to receive the money in two or three weeks.” 

“Are you telling the truth?” 

“Yes, tell her. Well, your servant. I am staying very 
near you.” 

As he went out, Svidrigailov ran up against Razumihin in 
the doorway. 




to Bakaleyev’s, to arrive before Luzhin. 
“Why, who was that?” asked Razumihin, as soon as 
they were in the street. 

“Tt was Svidrigailov, that landowner in whose house my 
sister was insulted when she was their governess. Through 
his persecuting her with his attentions, she was turned ott 
by his wife, Marfa Petrovna. This Marfa Petrovna begged 
Dounia’s forgiveness afterwards, and she’s just died sud- 
denly. It was of her we were talking this morning. I don’t 
know why I’m afraid of that man. He came here at once 
after his wife’s funeral. He is very strange, and is deter- 
mined on doing something. ... We must guard Dounia 
from him... that’s what I wanted to tell you, do you 
hear ?” 

“Guard her! What can he do to harm Avdotya Roma- 
novna? Thank you, Rodya, for speaking to me like that... . 
We will, we will guard her. Where does he live?” 

“T don’t know.” 

“Why didn’t you ask? Whata pity! Ill find out, though.” 

“Did you see him?” asked Raskolnikov after a pause. 

“Yes, I noticed him, I noticed him well.” 

“You did really see him? You saw him clearly?” Raskol- 
nikov insisted. 

“Yes, I remember him perfectly, I should know him in a 
thousand; I have a good memory for faces.” 

They were silent again. 

“Hm! ... that’s all right,’ muttered Raskolnikov. “Do 
you know, I fancied ...1 keep thinking that it may have 
been an hallucination.” 

“What do you mean? I don’t understand you.” | 

“Well, you all say,’ Raskolnikov went on, twisting his 
mouth into a smile, “that I am mad. I thought just now 
that perhaps I really am mad, and have only seen a phantom.” 


ie was nearly eight o’clock. The two young men hurried 


“What do you mean?” 

“Why, who can tell? Perhaps I am really mad, and per- 
haps everything that happened all these days may be only 

“Ach, Rodya, you have been upset again! ... But what 
did he say, what did he come for?” 

Raskolnikov did not answer. Razumihin thought a minute. 

“Now let me tell you my story,” he began, “I came to you, 
you were asleep. Then we had dinner and then I went to 
Porfiry’s, Zametov was still with him. I tried to begin, but it 
was no use. I couldn’t speak in the right way. They don’t 
seem to understand and can’t understand, but are not a bit 
ashamed. I drew Porfiry to the window, and began talking 
to him, but it was still no use. He looked away and I looked 
away. At last I shook my fist in his ugly face, and told him 
as a cousin I’d brain him. He merely looked at me, I cursed 
and came away. That was all. It was very stupid. To 
' Zametov I didn’t say a word. But, you see, I thought I’d 
made a mess of it, but as I went downstairs a brilliant idea 
struck me: why should we trouble? Of course if you were 
in any danger or anything, but why need you care? You 
needn’t care a hang for them. We shall have a laugh at 
them afterwards, and if I were in your place I’d mystify 
them more than ever. How ashamed they'll be afterwards! 
Hang them! We can thrash them afterwards, but let’s laugh 
at them now!” 

“To be sure,” answered Raskolnikov. “But what will 
you say to-morrow?” he thought to himself. Strange to say, 
till that moment it had never occurred to him to wonder what 
Razumihin would think when he knew. As he thought it, 
Raskolnikov looked at him. Razumihin’s account of his visit 
to Porfiry had very little interest for him, so much had come 
and gone since then. 

In the corridor they came upon Luzhin; he had arrived 
punctually at eight, and was looking for the number, so that 
all three went in together without greeting or looking at one 
another. The young men walked in first, while Pyotr 
Petrovitch, for good manners, lingered a little in the 
passage, taking off his coat. Pulcheria Alexandrovna came 
forward at once to greet him in the doorway, Dounia was 


welcoming her brother. Pyotr Petrovitch walked in and 
quite amiably, though with redoubled dignity, bowed to the 
ladies. He looked, however, as though he were a little put 
out and could not yet recover himself. Pulcheria 
Alexandrovna, who seemed also a little embarrassed, 
hastened to make them all sit down at the round table 
where a samovar was boiling. Dounia and Luzhin were 
facing one another on opposite sides of the table. 
Razumihin and Raskolnikov were facing Pulcheria Alex- 
androvna, Razumihin was next to Luzhin and Raskolnikov 
was beside his sister. 

A moment’s silence followed. Pyotr Petrovitch deliber- 
ately drew out a cainbric handkerchief reeking of sceft 
and blew his nose with an air of a benevolent man who 
felt himself slighted, and was firmly resolved to insist on 
an explanation. In the passage the idea had occurred to 
him to keep on his overcoat and walk away, and so give 
the two ladies a sharp and emphatic lesson and make them 
feel the gravity of the position. But he could not bring 
himself to do this. Besides, he could not endure uncertainty 
and he wanted an explanation: if his request had been so 
openly disobeyed, there was something behind it, and in that 
case it was better to find it out beforehand; it rested with 
him to punish them and there would always be time for 

“T trust you had a favourable journey,” 
officially of Pulcheria Alexandrovna, ! 

“Oh, very, Pyotr Petrovitch.” 

“T am gratified to hear it. And Avdotya Romanovna is 
not over fatigued either?” 

“T am young and strong, I don’t get tired, but it was a 
great strain for mother,” answered Dounia. 

“That’s unavoidable; our national railways are of terrible 
length. ‘Mother Russia,’ as they say, is a vast country. ... 
In spite of all my desire to do so, I was unable to meet you 
yesterday. But I trust all passed off without inconvenience ?” 

“Oh, no, Pyotr Petrovitch, it was all terribly dis- 
heartening.” Pulcheria Alexandrovna hastened to declare 
with peculiar intonation, “and if Dmitri Prokofitch had not 
been sent us, I really believe by God Himself, we should 

he inquired 


have been utterly lost. Here, he is! Dmitri Prokofitch 
Razumihin,”’ she added, introducing him to Luzhin. 

“T had the pleasure... yesterday,’ muttered Pyotr 
Petrovitch with a hostile glance sidelong at Razumihin; 
then he scowled and was silent. 

Pyotr Petrovitch belonged to that class of persons, on the 
surface very polite in society, who make a great point of 
punctiliousness, but who, directly they are crossed in any- 
thing, are completely disconcerted, and become more like 
sacks of flour than elegant and lively men of society. 
Again all was silent; Raskolnikov was obstinately mute, 
Avdotya Romanovna was unwilling to open the conversa- 
tion too soon. Razumihin had nothing to say, so Pulcheria 
Alexandrovna was anxious again. 

“Marfa Petrovna is dead, have you heard?” she began 
having recourse to her leading item of conversation. 

“To be sure, I heard so. I was immediately informed, 
and I have come to make you acquainted with the fact that 
Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigailov set off in haste for Peters- 
burg immediately after his wife’s funeral. So at least I 
have excellent authority for believing.” 

“To Petersburg? here?” Dounia asked in alarm and 
looked at her mother. 

“Yes, indeed, and doubtless not without some design, 
having in view the rapidity of his departure, and all the 
circumstances preceding it.” 

“Good heavens! won’t he leave Dounia in peace even 
here?” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. 

“T imagine that neither you nor Avdotya Romanovna 
have any grounds for uneasiness, unless, of course, you are 
yourselves desirous of getting into communication with him. 
For my part I am on my guard, and am now discovering 
where he is lodging.” . 

“Oh, Pyotr Petrovitch, you would not believe what a 
fright you have given me,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna went 
on. “I’ve only seen him twice, but I thought him terrible, 
terrible! I am convinced that he was the cause of Marfa 
Petrovna’s death.” : 

“It’s impossible to be certain about that. I have precise 
information. I do not dispute that he may have contributed 


to accelerate the course of events by the moral influence, 
so to say, of the affront; but as to the general conduct and 
moral characteristics of that personage, I am in agreement 
with you. I do not know whether he is well off now, and 
precisely what Marfa Petrovna left him; this will be known 
to me within a very short period; but no doubt here in 
Petersburg, if he has any pecuniary resources, he will 
relapse at once into his old ways. He is the most depraved, 
and abjectly vicious specimen of that class of men. I have 
considerable reason to believe that Marfa Petrovna who 
was so unfortunate as to fall in love with him and to pay 
his debts eight years ago, was of service to him also in 
another way. Solely by her exertions and sacrifices, a 
criminal charge, involving an element of fantastic and 
homicidal brutality for which he might well have been 
sentenced to Siberia, was hushed up. That’s the sort of 
man he is, if you care to know.” 

“Good heavens!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Raskol- 
nikov listened attentively. 

“Are you speaking the truth when you say that you 
have good evidence of this?’ Dounia asked sternly and 

“T only repeat what I was told in secret by Marfa 
Petrovna. I must observe that from the legal point of view 
the case was far from clear. There was, and I believe 
still is, living here a woman called Resslich, a foreigner, 
who lent small sums of money at interest, and did other 
commissions, and with this woman Svidrigailov had for a 
long while close and mysterious relations. She had a rela- 
tion, a niece I believe, living with her, a deaf and dumb 
girl of fifteen, or perhaps not more than fourteen. Resslich 
hated this girl, and grudged her every crust; she used to 
beat her mercilessly. One day the girl was found hanging 
in the garret. At the inquest the verdict was suicide. 
After the usual proceedings the matter ended, but, later 
on, information was given that the child had been... 
cruelly outraged by Svidrigailov. It is true, this was not 
clearly established, the information was given by another 
German woman of loose character whose word could not be 
trusted; no statement was actually made to the police, 


thanks to Marfa Petrovna’s money and exertions; it did not 
get beyond gossip. And yet the story is a very significant 
one. You heard, no doubt, Avdotya Romanovna, when you 
were with them the story of the servant Philip who died of 
ill treatment he received six years ago, before the abolition 
of serfdom.” 

“T heard on the contrary that this Philip hanged himself.” 

“Quite so, but what drove him, or rather perhaps dis- 
posed him, to suicide, was the systematic persecution and 
severity of Mr. Svidrigailov.” 

“T don’t know that,’ answered Dounia, dryly. “I only 
heard a queer story that Philip was a sort of hypochondriac, 
a sort of domestic philosopher, the servants used to say, 
‘he read himself silly,’ and that he hanged himself partly on 
account of Mr. Svidrigailov’s mockery of him and not his 
blows. When I was there he behaved well to the servants, 
and they were actually fond of him, though they certainly 
did blame him for Philip’s death.” 

“I perceive, Avdotya Romanovna, that you seem disposed 
to undertake his defence all of a sudden,” Luzhin observed, 
twisting his lips into an ambiguous smile, “there’s no doubt 
that he is an astute man, and insinuating where ladies are 
concerned, of which Marfa Petrovna, who has died so 
strangely, is a terrible instance. My only desire has been 
to be of service to you and your mother with my advice, in 
view of the renewed efforts which may certainly be antici- 
pated from him. For my part it’s my firm conviction, that 
he will end in a debtor’s prison again. Marfa Petrovna 
had not the slightest intention of settling anything sub- 
stantial on him, having regard for ‘his children’s interests, 
and, if she left him anything, it would only be the merest 
sufficiency, something insignificant and ephemeral, which 
would not last a year for a man of his habits.” 

“Pyotr Petrovitch, I beg you,” said Dounia, “say no more 
of Mr. Svidrigailov. It makes me miserable.” 

“He has just been to see me,” said Raskolnikov, breaking 
his silence for the first time. 

There were exclamations from all, and they all turned to 
him. Even Pyotr Petrovitch was roused. 

“An hour and half ago, he came in when I was asleep, 


waked me, and introduced himself.” Raskolnikov continued. 
“He was fairly cheerful and at ease, and quite hopes that 
we shall become friends. He is particularly anxious by the 
way, Dounia, for an interview with you, at which he asked 
me to assist. He has a proposition to make to you, and he 
told me about it. He told me, too, that a week before her 
death Marfa Petrovna left you three thousand roubles in 
her will, Dounia, and that you can receive the money very 

“Thank God!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna, crossing 
herself. “Pray for her soul, Dounia!’ 

“Tt’s a fact!” broke from Luzhin. , 

“Tell us, what more?” Dounia urged Raskolnikov. 

“Then he said that he wasn’t rich and all the estate was 
left to his children who are now with an aunt, then that he 
was staying somewhere not far from me, but where, I don’t 
know, I didn’t ask. . . .” 

“But what, what does he want to propose to Dounia?” 
cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna in a fright. “Did he tell 

; FV git? 

“What was it?” 

“T’ll tell you afterwards.” 

Raskolnikov ceased speaking and turned his attention ta 
his tea. 

Pyotr Petrovitch looked at his watch. 

“T am compelled to keep a business engagement, and so 
I shall not be in your way,” he added with an air of some 
pique and he began getting up. 

“Don’t go, Pyotr Petrovitch,” said Dounia, “you intended 
to spend the evening. Besides, you wrote yourself that you 
wanted to have an explanation with mother.” 

“Precisely so, Avdotya Romanovna,”’ Pyotr Petrovitch 
answered impressively, sitting down again, but still holding 
his hat. “I certainly desired an explanation with you and 
your honoured mother upon a very important point indeed. 
But as your brother cannot speak openly in my presence of 
some proposals of Mr. Svidrigailov, I, too, do not desire 
and am not able to speak openly the presence of 
others ...of certain matters of the greatest gravity. 


Moreover, my most weighty and urgent request has been 
disregarded. . . .” 

Assuming an aggrieved air, Luzhin relapsed into dignified 

“Your request that my brother should not be present at 
our meeting was disregarded solely at my instance,” said 
Dounia. “You wrote that you had been insulted by my 
brother; I think that this must be explained at once, and 
you must be reconciled. And if Rodya really has insulted 
you, then he should and will apologise.” 

Pyotr Petrovitch took a stronger line. 

“There are insults, Avdotya Romanovna, which no good- 
will can make us forget. There is a line in everything 
which it is dangerous to overstep; and when it has been 
overstepped, there is no return.” 

“That wasn’t what I was speaking of exactly, Pyotr 
Petrovitch,’ Dounia interrupted with some impatience. 
“Please understand that our whole future depends now on 
whether all this is explained and set right as soon as possible. 
I tell you frankly at the start that I cannot look at it in 
any other light, and if you have the least regard for me, 
all this business must be ended to-day, however hard that 
may be. I repeat that if my brother is to blame he will 
ask your forgiveness.” 

“T am surprised at your putting the question like that,” 
said Luzhin, getting more and more irritated. “Esteeming, 
and so to say, adoring you, I may at the same time, very 
well indeed, be able to dislike some member of your family. 
Though I lay claim to the happiness of your hand, I cannot 
accept duties incompatible with .. .” 

“Ah, don’t be so ready to take offence, Pyotr Petrovitch,” 
Dounia interrupted with feeling, “and be the sensible and 
generous man I have always considered, and wish to con- 
sider, you to be. I’ve given you a great promise, I am 
your betrothed. Trust me in this matter and, believe me, 
I shall be capable of judging impartially. My assuming the 
part of judge is as much a surprise for my brother as for 
you. When I insisted on his coming to our interview to-day 
after your letter, I told him nothing of what I meant to do. 
Understand that, if you are not reconciled, I must choose 


between you—it must be either you or he. That is how 
the question rests on your side and on his. I don’t want 
to be mistaken in my choice, and I must not be. For your 
sake I must break off with my brother, for my brother’s 
sake I must break off with you. I can find out for certain 
now whether he is a brother to me, and I want to know it; 
and of you, whether I am dear to you, whether you esteem 
me, whether you are the husband for me.” 

“Avdotya Romanovna,” Luzhin declared huffily, “your 
words are of too much consequence to me; I will say more, 
they are offensive in view of the position I have the honour 
to occupy in relation to you. To say nothing of your strange 
and offensive setting me on a level with an impertinent boy, 
you admit the possibility of breaking your promise to me. 
You say ‘you or he,’ showing thereby of how little conse- 
quence I am in your eyes... 1 cannot let this pass con- 
sidering the relationship and... the obligations existing 
between us.” 

“What!” cried Dounia, flushing. “I set your interest 
beside all that has hitherto been most precious in my life, 
what has made up the whole of my life, and here you are 
offended at my making too little account of you.” 

Raskolnikov smiled sarcastically, Razumihin fidgeted, but 
Pyotr Petrovitch did not accept the reproof; on the con- 
trary, at every word he became more persistent and 
‘irritable, as though he relished it. 

“Love for the future partner of your life, for your hus- 
band, ought to outweigh your love for your brother,” he 
pronounced sententiously, ‘and in any case I cannot be put 
on the same level. . . . Although I said so emphatically that 
I would not speak openly in your brother’s presence, never- 
theless, I intend now to ask your honoured mother for a 
necessary explanation on a point of great importance closely 
affecting my dignity. Your son,” he turned to Pulcheria 
Alexandrovna, “yesterday in the presence of Mr. Razsudkin 
(or ... I think that’s it? excuse me I have forgotten your 
surname,” he bowed politely to Razumihin) insulted me by 
misrepresenting the idea I expressed to you in a private 
conversation, drinking coffee, that is, that marriage with a 
poor girl who has had experience of trouble is more advan- 


tageous from the conjugal point of view than with one who 
has lived in luxury, since it is more profitable for the moral 
character. Your son intentionally exaggerated the signifi- 
cance of my words and made them ridiculous, accusing me 
of malicious intentions, and, as far as I could see, relied 
upon your correspondence with him. I shall consider myself 
happy, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, if it is possible for you to 
convince me of an opposite conclusion, and thereby consid- 
erately reassure me. Kindly let me know in what terms 
precisely you repeated my words in your letter to Rodion 

“T don’t remember,” faltered Pulcheria Alexandrovna. “I 
repeated them as I understood them. I don’t know how 
Rodya repeated them to you, perhaps he exaggerated.” 

“He could not have exaggerated them, except at your 

“Pyotr Petrovitch,” Pulcheria Alexandrovna declared with 
dignity, “the proof that Dounia and 1 did not take your 
words in a very bad sense is the fact that we are here.” 

“Good, mother,” said Dounia approvingly. 

“Then this is my fault again,” said Luzhin, aggrieved. 

“Well, Pyotr Petrovitch you keep blaming Rodion, but 
you yourself have just written what was false about -him.” 
Pulcheria Alexandrovna added, gaining courage. 

“I don’t remember writing anything false.” 

“You wrote,’ Raskolnikov said sharply, not turning to 
Luzhin, “that I gave money yesterday not to the widow 
of the man who was killed, as was the fact, but to his daugh- 
ter (whom I had never seen fill yesterday). You wrote this 
to make dissension between me and my family, and for that 
object added coarse expressions about the conduct of a girl 
whom you don’t know. All that is mean slander.” 

“Excuse me, sir,” said Luzhin, quivering with fury. “I 
enlarged upon your qualities and conduct in my letter solely 
in response to your sister’s and mother’s inquiries, how I 
found you, and what impression you made on me. As for 
what you’ve alluded to in my letter, be so good as to point 
out one word of falsehood, show, that is, that you didn’t 
throw away your money, and that there are not worthless 
persons in that family, however unfortunate.” 


“To my thinking, you with all your virtues are not worth 
the little finger of that unfortunate girl at whom you throw 

“Would you go so far then as to let her associate with 
your mother and sister?” 

“T have done so already, if you care to know. I made her 
sit down to-day with mother and Dounia.” 

“Rodya!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Dounia crim- 
soned, Razumihin knitted his brows. Luzhin smiled with 
lofty sarcasm. 

“You may see for yourself, Avdotya Romanovna,” he said, 
“whether it is possible for us to agree. I hope now that this 
question is at an end, once and for all. I will withdraw, that 
I may not hinder the pleasures of family intimacy, and the 
discussion of secrets.” He got up from his chair and took 
his hat. “But in withdrawing, I venture to request that for 
the future I may be spared similar meetings, and, so to say, 
compromises. I appeal particularly to you, honoured Pul- 
cheria Alexandrovna, on this subject, the more as my letter 
was addressed to you and to no one else.” 

Pulcheria Alexandrovna was a little offended. 

“You seem to think we are completely under your author- 
ity, Pyotr Petrovitch. Dounia has told you the reason your 
desire was disregarded, she had the best intentions. And 
indeed you write as though you were laying commands upon 
me. Are we to consider every desire of yours as a com- 
mand? Let me tell you on the contrary that you ought to 
show particular delicacy and consideration for us now, be- 
cause we have thrown up evetything, and have come here 
relying on you, and so we are in any case in a sense in your 

“That is not quite true, Pulcheria Alexandrovna, especially 
at the present moment, when the news has come of Marfa 
Petrovna’s legacy, which seems indeed very apropos, judging 
from the new tone you take to me,” he added sarcastically. 

“Judging from that remark, we may certainly presume that 
you were reckoning on our helplessness,” Dounia observed 

“But now in any case I cannot reckon on it, and I partic- 
ularly desire not to hinder your discussion of the secret 


proposals of Arkady Ivanovitch Svidrigailov, which he has 
entrusted to your brother and which have, I perceive, a great 
and possibly a very agreeable interest for you.” 

“Good heavens!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. 

Razumihin could not sit still on his chair. 

“Aren’t you ashamed now, sister?” asked Raskolnikov. 

“T am ashamed, Rodya,” said Dounia. “Pyotr Petrovitch, 
go away,” she turned to him, white with anger. 

Pyotr Petrovitch had apparently not at all expected such 
a conclusion. He had too much confidence in himself, in his 
power and in the helplessness of his victims. He could not 
believe it even now. He turned pale, and his lips quivered. 

“Avdotya Romanovna, if I go out of this door now, after 
such a dismissal, then, you may reckon on it, I will never 
come back. Consider what you are doing. My word is not 
to be shaken.” 

“What insolence!” cried Dounia, springing up from her 
seat. “I don’t want you to come back again.” 

“What! So that’s how it stands!” cried Luzhin, utterly 
unable to the last moment to believe in the rupture and so 
completely thrown out of his reckoning now. “So that’s 
how it stands! But do you know, Avdotya Romanovna, that 
I might protest.” 

“What right have you to speak to her like that?” Pulcheria 
Alexandrovna intervened hotly. “And what can you protest 
about? What rights have you? Am I to give my Dounia 
to a man like you? Go away, leave us altogether! We are 
to blame for having agreed to a wrong action, and I above 
AE Bag 

“But you have bound me, Pulcheria Alexandrovna,” Luzhin 
stormed in a frenzy, “by your promise, and now you deny 
it and .... besides ...I have been led on account of that 
into expenses. .. .” 

This last complaint was so characteristic of Pyotr Petro- 
vitch, that Raskolnikov, pale with anger and with the effort 
of restraining it, could not help breaking into laughter. But 
Pulcheria Alexandrovna was furious. 

“Expenses? What expenses? Are you speaking of our 
trunk? But the conductor brought it for nothing for you. 
Mercy on us, we have bound you! What are you thinking 


about, Pyotr Petrovitch, it was you bound us, hand and foot, 
not we!” 

“Enough, mother, no more please,’ Avdotya Romanovna 
implored. “Pyotr Petrovitch, do be kind and go!” 

“T am going, but one last word,” he said, quite unable to 
control himself. “Your mamma seems to have entirely for- 
gotten that I made up my mind to take you, so to speak, after 
the gossip of the town had spread all over the district in 
regard to your reputation. Disregarding public opinion for 
your sake and reinstating your reputation, I certainly might 
very well reckon on a fitting return, and might indeed look 
for gratitude on your part. And my eyes have only now 
been opened! I see myself that I may have acted very, very 
recklessly in disregarding the universal verdict... .” 

“Does the fellow want his head smashed?” cried Razu- 
mihin, jumping up. 

“You are a mean and spiteful man!” said Dounia. 

“Not a word! Not a movement!” cried Raskolnikov, hold- 
ing Razumihin back; then going close up to Luzhin, “kindly 
leave the room!” he said quietly and distinctly, “and not a 
word more or... .” 

Pyotr Petrovitch gazed at him for some seconds with a 
pale face that worked with anger, then he turned, went out, 
and rarely has any man carried away in his heart such vin- 
dictive hatred as he felt against Raskolnikov. Him, and him 
alone, he blamed for everything. It is noteworthy that as he 
went downstairs he still imagined that his case was perhaps 
not utterly lost, and that, so far as the ladies were concerned, 
all might “very well indeed” be set right again. 


vex fact was that up to the last moment he had never 

expected such an ending; he had been overbearing to 

the last degree, never dreaming that two destitute and 
defenceless women could escape from his control. This con- 
viction was strengthened by his vanity and conceit, a conceit 
to the point of fatuity. Pyotr Petrovitch, who had made his 
way up from insignificance, was morbidly given to self- 
admiration, had the highest opinion of his intelligence and 
capacities, and sometimes even gloated in solitude over his 
image in the glass. But what he loved and valued above all 
was the money he had amassed by his labour, and by all 
sorts of devices: that money made him the equal of all who 
had been his superiors. 

When he had bitterly reminded Dounia that he had decided 
to take her in spite of evil report, Pyotr Petrovitch had 
spoken with perfect sincerity and had, indeed, felt genuinely 
indignant at such “black ingratitude.” And yet, when he 
made Dounia his offer, he was fully aware of the ground- 
lessness of all the gossip. The story had been everywhere 
contradicted by Marfa Petrovna, and was by then disbelieved 
by all the townspeople, who were warm in Dounia’s defence. 
And he would not have denied that he knew all that at the 
time. Yet he still thought highly of his own resolution in 
lifting Dounia to his level and regarded it as something 
heroic. In speaking of it to Dounia, he had let out the secret 
feeling he cherished and admired, and he could not under- 
stand that others should fail to admire it too. He had called 
on Raskolnikov with the feelings of a benefactor who is 
about to reap the fruits of his good deeds and to hear agree- 
able flattery. And as he went downstairs now, he considered 
himself most undeservedly injured and unrecognised. 

Dounia was simply essential to him; to do without her was 
unthinkable. For many years he had voluptuous dreams of 
marriage, but he had gone on waiting and amassing money. 
He brooded with relish, in profound secret, over the image 



of a girl—virtuous, poor (she must be poor), very young, 
very pretty, of good birth and education, very timid, one who 
had suffered much, and was completely humbled before him, 
one who would all her life look on him as her saviour, wor- 
ship him, admire him and only him. How many scenes, how 
many amorous episodes he had imagined on this seductive 
and playful theme, when his work was over! And, behold, 
the dream of so many years was all but realised; the beauty 
and education of Avdotya Romanovna had impressed him; 
her helpless position had been a great allurement; in her he 
had found even more than he dreamed of. Here was a girl 
of pride, character, virtue, of education and breeding superior 
to his own (he felt that), and this creature would be slav-» 
ishly grateful all her life for his heroic condescension, and 
would humble herself in the dust before him, and he would 
have absolute unbounded power over her! ... Not long 
before, he had, too, after long reflection and hesitation, 
made an important change in his career and was now enter- 
ing on a wider circle of business. With this change his 
cherished dreams of rising into a higher class of society 
seemed likely to be realised. . . . He was, in fact, determined 
to try his fortune in Petersburg. He knew that women 
could do a very great deal. The fascination of a charming, 
virtuous, highly educated woman might make his way easier, 
might do wonders in attracting people to him, throwing an 
aureole round him, and now everything was in ruins! This 
sudden horrible rupture affected him like a clap of thunder; 
it was like a hideous joke, an absurdity. He had only been 
a tiny bit masterful, had not even time to speak out, had 
simply made a joke, been carried away—and it had ended 
so seriously. And, of course, too, he did love Dounia in his 
own way; he already possessed her in his dreams—and all 
at once! No! The next day, the very next day it must all 
be set right, smoothed over, settled. Above all he must crush 
that conceited milksop who was the cause of it all. With a 
sick feeling he could not help recalling Razumihin too, but, 
he soon reassured himself on that score; as though a fellow 
like that could be put on a level with him! The man he 
really dreaded in earnest was Svidrigailov. ... He had, in 
short, a great deal to attend to.... 


“No, I, I am more to blame than any one!” said Dounia, 
kissing and embracing her mother. “I was tempted by his 
money, but on my honour, brother, I had no idea he was 
such a base man. If I had seen through him before, nothing 
would have tempted me! Don’t blame me, brother!” 

“God has delivered us! God has delivered us!” Pulcheria 
Alexandrovna muttered, but half consciously, as though 
scarcely able to realise what had happened. 

They were all relieved, and in five minutes they were 
laughing. Only now and then Dounia turned white and 
frowned, remembering what had passed. Pulcheria Alexan- 
drovna was surprised to find that she, too, was glad: she 
had only that morning thought rupture with Luzhin a terri- 
ble misfortune. Razumihin was delighted. He did not yet 
dare to express his joy fully, but he was in a fever of excite- 
ment as though a ton-weight had fallen off his heart. Now 
he had the right to devote his life to them, to serve 
them. ... Anything might happen now! But he felt afraid 
to think of further possibilities and dared not let his imag- 
ination range. But Raskolnikov sat still in the same place, 
almost sullen and indifferent. Though he had been the most 
insistent on getting rid of Luzhin, he seemed now the least 
concerned at what had happened. Dounia could not help 
thinking that he was still angry with her, and Pulcheria 
Alexandrovna watched him timidly. 

“What did Svidrigailov say to you?” said Dounia, 
approaching him. 

“Yes, yes!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. 

Raskolnikov raised his head. 

“He wants to make you a present of ten thousand roubles 
and he desires to see you once in my presence.” 

“See her! On no account!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. 
“And how dare he offer her money!” 

Then Raskolnikov repeated (rather dryly) his conversation 

with Svidrigailov, omitting his account of the ghostly visita- 
tions of Marfa Petrovna, wishing to avoid all unnecessary 

“What answer did you give him?” asked Dounia. 

“At first I said I would not take any message to you. Then 
he said that he would do his utmost to obtain an interview 


with you without my help. He assured me that his passion 
for you was a passing infatuation, now he has no feeling 
for you. He doesn’t want you to marry Luzhin.... His 
talk was altogether rather muddled.” 

“How do you explain him to yourself, Rodya? How did 
he strike you?” 

“T must confess I don’t quite understand him. He offers 
you ten thousand, and yet says he is not well off. He says 
he is going away, and in ten minutes he forgets he has said it. 
Then he says he is going to be married and has already fixed 
on the girl... . No doubt he has a motive, and probably a 
bad one. But it’s odd that he should be so clumsy about it 
if he had any designs against you. . . . Of course, I refused 
this money on your account, once for all. Altogether, I 
thought him very strange. ... One might almost think he 
was mad. But I may be mistaken; that may only be the part 
he assumes. The death of Marfa Petrovna seems to have 
made a great impression on him.” 

“God rest her soul,” exclaimed Pulcheria Alexandrovna. 
“T shall always, always pray for her! Where should we be 
now, Dounia, without this three thousand! It’s as though 
it had fallen from heaven! Why, Rodya, this morning we 
had only three roubles in our pocket and Dounia and I were 
just planning to pawn her watch, so as to avoid borrowing 
from that man until he offered help.” 

Dounia seemed strangely impressed by Svidrigailov’s 

She still stood meditating. 

“He has got some terrible plan,” she said in a half whisper 
to herself, almost shuddering. 

Raskolnikov noticed this disproportionate terror. 

“TI fancy I shall have to see him more than once again,” he 
said to Dounia. 

“We will watch him! I will track him out!” cried Razu- 
mihin, vigorously. “I won’t lose sight of him. Rodya has 
given me leave. He said to me himself just now, “Take 
care of my sister.’ Will you give me leave, too, Avdotya 

Dounia smiled and held out her hand, but the look of 
anxiety did not leave her face. Pulcheria Alexandrovna 


gazed at her timidly, but the three thousand roubles had 
obviously a soothing effect on her. 

A quarter of an hour later, they were all engaged in a 
lively conversation. Even Raskolnikov listened attentively 
for some time, though he did not talk. Razumihin was the 

“And why, why should you go away?” he flowed on 
Sestatically. “And what are you to do in a little town? The 
great thing is, you are all here together and you need one 
another—you do need one another, believe me. For a time, 
anyway. ... lake me into partnership and I assure you 
we'll plan a capital enterprise. Listen! I'll explain it all in 
detail to you, the whole project! It all flashed into my head 
this morning, before anything had happened... . I tell you 
what; I have an uncle, I must introduce him to you (a most 
accommodating and respectable old man). This uncle has 
got a capital of a thousand roubles, and he lives on his 
pension and has no need of that money. For the last two 
years he has been bothering me to borrow it from him and 
pay him six per cent. interest. I know what that means; he 
simply wants to help me. Last year I had no need of it, but 
this year I resolved to borrow it as soon as he arrived. 
Then you lend me another thousand of your three and we 
have enough for a start, so we'll go into partnership, and 
what are we going to do?” 

Then Razumihin began to unfold his project, and he 
explained at length that almost all our publishers and book- 
sellers know nothing at all of what they are selling, and for 
that reason they are usually bad publishers, and that any 
decent publications pay as a rule and give a profit, sometimes 
a considerable one. Razumihin had, indeed, been dreaming 
of setting up as a publisher. For the last two years he had 
been working in publishers’ offices, and knew three European 
languages well, though he had told Raskolnikov six days 
before that he was “schwach” in German with an object of 
_ persuading him to take half his translation and half the pay- 
ment for it. He had told a lie then, and Raskolnikov knew 
he was lying. 

“Why, why should we let our chance slip when we have 
one of the chief means of success—money of our own!” 


cried Razumihin warmly. “Of course there will be a lot of 
work, but we will work, you, Avdotya Romanovna, I, Rodion. 

. You get splendid profit on some books nowadays! 
And the great point of the business is that we shall know just 
what wants translating, and we shall be translating, publish- 
ing, learning all at once. I can be of use because I have 
experience. For nearly two years I’ve been scuttling about 
among the publishers, and now I know every detail of their 
business. You need not be a saint to make pots, believe me! 
And why, why should we let our chance slip! Why, I know 
—and I keep the secret—-two or three books which one might 
get a hundred roubles simply for thinking of translating and 
publishing. Indeed, and I would not take five hundred for 
the very idea of one of them. And what do you think? If 
I were to tell a publisher, I dare say he’d hesitate—they 
are such blockheads! And as for the business side, print- 
ing, paper, selling, you trust to me, I know my way about. 
We'll begin in a small way and go on to a large. In 
any case it will get us our living and we shall get back our 

Dounia’s eyes shone. 

“T like what you are saying, Dmitri Prokofitch! 

“T know nothing about it, of course,” put in Pulcheria 
Alexandrovna, “it may be a good idea, but again God knows. 
It’s new and untried. Of course, we must remain here at 
least for a time.” She looked at Rodya. 

“What do you think, brother?” said Dounia. 

“I think he’s got a very good idea,’ he answered. “Of 
course, it’s too soon to dream of a publishing firm, but we 
certainly might bring out five or six books and be sure of 
success. I know of one book myself which would be sure to 
go well. And as for his being able to manage it, there’s no 
doubt about that either. He knows the business. . . . But we » 
can talk it over later... .” 

“Hurrah!” cried Razumihin. “Now, stay, there’s a flat ° 
here in this house, belonging to the same owner. It’s a 
special flat apart, not communicating with these lodgings. 
It’s furnished, rent moderate, three rooms. Suppose you take 
them to begin with. Ill pawn your watch to-morrow and 

17? she 


bring you the money, and everything can be arranged then. 
You can all three live together, and Rodya will be with you. 
But where are you off to, Rodya?” 

“What, Rodya, you are going already?” Pulcheria Alexan- 
drovna asked in dismay. 

“At such a minute?” cried Razumihin. 

Dounia looked at her brother with incredulous wonder. 
He held his cap in his hand, he was preparing to leave 

“One would think you were burying me or saying good-bye 
for ever,” he said somewhat oddly. He attempted to smile, 
but it did not turn out a smile. “But who knows, perhaps 
it is the last time we shall see each other .. .” he let slip 
accidentally. It was what he was thinking, and it somehow 
was uttered aloud. 

“What is the matter with you?” cried his mother. 

“Where are you going, Rodya?” asked Dounia, rather 

“Oh, I’m quite obliged to...” he answered vaguely, as 
though hesitating what he would say. But there was a look 
of sharp determination in his white face. 

“T meant to say I was coming here ...I meant 
to tell you, mother, and you Dounia, that it would be better 
for us to part for a time. I feel ill, I am not at peace.... 
I will come afterwards, I will come of myself . . . When it’s 
possible. I remember you and love you. ... Leave me, 
leave me alone. I decided this even before ... I’m abso- 
lutely resolved on it. Whatever may come to me, whether I 
come to ruin or not, I want to be alone. Forget me alto- 
gether, it’s better. Don’t inquire about me. When I can, 
I’ll come of myself or ... Vl send for you. Perhaps it will 
all come back, but now if you love me, give me up ... else 
I shall begin to hate you, I feel it. . . . Good-bye!” 

“Good God!” cried Pulcheria Alexandrovna. Both his 
mother and his sister were terribly alarmed. Razumihin was 

“Rodya, Rodya, be reconciled with us! Let us be as 
before!” cried his poor mother. 

He turned slowly to the door and slowly went out of the 
room. Dounia overtook him, 


“Brother, what are you doing to mother?” she whispered, 
her eyes flashing with indignation. 

He looked dully at her. 

“No matter, I shall come... . I’m coming,” he muttered 
in an undertone, as though not fully conscious of what he 
was saying, and he went out of the room. 

“Wicked, heartless egoist !” cried Dounia. 

“He is insane, but not heartless. He is mad! Don’t you 
see it? You’re heartless after that!” Razumihin whispered 
in her ear, squeezing her hand tightly. “I shall be back 
directly,” he shouted to the horror-stricken mother, and he 
ran out of the room. 

Raskolnikov was waiting for him at the end of the passage. 

“I knew you would run after me,” he said. “Go back to 
them—be with them... be with them to-morrow and 
always....I.... perhaps I shall come ...if I can. 

And without holding out his hand he walked away. 

“But where are you going? What are you doing? What’s 
the matter with you? How can you go on like this?” Razu- 
mihin muttered at his wits’ end. 

Raskolnikov stopped once more. 

“Once for all, never ask me about anything. I have nothing 
to tell you. Don’t come to see me. Maybe I’ll come here.... 
Leave me, but don’t leave them. Do you understand me?” 

It was dark in the corridor, they were standing near the 
lamp. For a minute they were looking at one another in 
silence. Razumihin remembered that minute all his life. 
Raskolnikov’s burning and intent eyes grew more penetrating 
every moment, piercing into his soul, into his consciousness. 
Suddenly Razumihin started. Something strange, as it were, 
passed between them. . . . Some idea, some hint as it were, 
slipped, something awful, hideous, and suddenly understood 
on both sides. . . . Razumihin turned pale. 

“Do you understand now?” said Raskolnikov, his face 
twitching nervously. “Go back, go to them,” he said sud- 
denly, and turning quickly, he went out of the house. 

I will not attempt to describe how Razumihin went back 
to the ladies, how he soothed them, how he protested that 
Rodya needed rest in his illness, protested that Rodya was 


sure to come, that he would come every day, that he was 
very, very much upset, that he must not be irritated, that he, 
Razumihin, would watch over him, would get him a doctor, 
the best doctor, a consultation. ...In fact from that eve- 
ning Razumihin took his place with them as a son and a 

Pe tet at wn went straight to the house on the 

canal bank where Sonia lived. It was an old green 

house of three storeys. He found the porter and 
obtained from him vague directions as to the whereabouts 
of Kapernaumoy, the tailor. Having found in the corner of 
the courtyard the entrance to the dark and narrow staircase, 
he mounted to the second floor and came out into a gallery 
that ran round the whole second story over the yard. While 
he was wandering in the darkness, uncertain where to turn 
for Kapernaumov’s door, a door opened three paces from 
him; he mechanically took hold of it. 

“Who is there?” a woman’s voice asked uneasily. 

“It’s I... . come to see you,” answered Raskolnikov and 
he walked into the tiny entry. 

On a broken chair stood a candle in a battered copper 
candlestick. | 

“It’s you! Good heavens!” cried Sonia weakly and she 
stood rooted to the spot. 

“Which is your room? This way?” and Raskolnikov 
trying not to look at her, hastened in. 

A minute later Sonia, too, came in with the candle, set 
down the candlestick and, completely disconcerted, stood 
before him inexpressibly agitated and apparently frightened 
by his unexpected visit. The colour rushed suddenly to her 
pale face and tears came into her eyes. ... She felt sick 
and ashamed and happy, too. ... Raskolnikov turned 
away quickly and sat on a chair by the table. He scanned 
the room in a rapid glance. 

It was a large but exceedingly low-pitched room, the only 
one let by the Kapernaumovs, to whose rooms a closed door 
led in the wall on the left. In the opposite side on the 
right hand wall was another door, always kept locked. That 
led to the next flat, which formed a separate lodging. Sonia’s 
room looked like a barn; it was a very irregular quadrangle 



and this gave it a grotesque appearance. A wall with three 
windows looking out on to the canal ran aslant so that one 
corner formed a very acute angle, and it was difficult to see 
in it without very strong light. The other corner was dis- 
proportionately obtuse. There was scarcely any furniture in 
the big room: in the corner on the right was a bedstead, 
beside it, nearest the door, a chair. A plain, deal table 
covered by a blue cloth stood against the same wall, close 
to the door into the other flat. Two rush-bottom chairs 
stood by the table. On the opposite wall near the acute 
angle stood a smaii plain wooden chest of drawers looking 
as it were lost in a desert. That was all there was in the 
room. The yellow, scratched and shabby wall-paper was 
black in the corners. It must have been damp and full of 
fumes in the winter. There was every sign of poverty; 
even the bedstead had no curtain. 

Sonia looked in silence at her visitor, who was so 
attentively and unceremoniously scrutinising her room, and 
even began at last to tremble with terror, as though 
she was standing before her judge and the arbiter of her 

“T am late. ... It’s eleven, isn’t it?” he asked, still not 
lifting his eyes. 

“Yes,” muttered Sonia, “oh yes, it is,” she added, hastily, 
as though in that lay her means of escape. ‘My landlady’s 
clock has just struck. . . . I heard it myself... .” 

“I’ve come to you for the last time,’ Raskolnikov went 
on gloomily, although this was the first time. “I may per- 
haps not see you again . . .” 

“Are you... going away?” 

“IT don’t know ... to-morrow. .. .” 

“Then you. are not coming to Katerina Ivanovna to- 
morrow?” Sonia’s voice shook. 

“I don’t know. I shall know to-morrow morning... . 
Never mind that: ve come to say one word. .. .” 

He raised his brooding eyes to her and suddenly noticed 
that he was sitting down while she was all the while stand- 
ing before him. 

“Why are you standing? Sit down,” he said in a changed 
voice, gentle and friendly. 


She sat down. He looked kindly and almost compas- 
sionately at her. 

“How thin you are! What a hand! Quite transparent, 
like a dead hand.” 

He took her hand. Sonia smiled faintly. 

“T have always been like that,” she said. 

“Even when you lived at home?” 


“Of course, you were,” he added abruptly and the expres- 
sion of his face and the sound of his voice changed again 

He looked round him once more. 

“You rent this room from the Kapernaumovs ?” 

BB sal oe 

“They live there, through that door ?” 

“Yes. ... They have another room like this.” 

“All in one room?” 


“T should be afraid in your room at night,” he observed 

“They are very good people, very kind,’ answered Sonia, 
who still seemed bewildered, “and all the furniture, every- 
thing . . . everything is theirs. And they are very kind and 
the children, too, often come to see me.” 

“They all stammer, don’t they?” 

“Yes. ... He stammers and he’s lame. And his wife, 
too.... It’s not exactly that she stammers, but she can’t 
speak plainly. She is a very kind woman. And he used to 
be a house serf. And there are seven children .. . and it’s 
only the eldest one that stammers and the others are simply 
ill . . . but they don’t stammer. . . . But where did you hear 
about them?” she added with some surprise. 

“Your father told me, then. He told me all about you. 
- » « And how you went out at six o’clock and came back 
at nine and how Katerina Ivanovna knelt down by your bed.” 

Sonia was confused. 

“T fancied I saw him to-day,” she whispered hesitatingly. 

“Whom ?” 

“Father. I was walking in the street, out there at the 
corner, about ten o’clock and he seemed to be walking in 


front. It looked just like him. I wanted to go to Katerina 

“You were walking in the streets?” 

“Yes,” Sonia whispered abruptly, again overcome with 
confusion and looking down. 

“Katerina Ivanovna used to beat you, I daresay ?”’ 

“Oh no, what are you saying? No!” Sonia looked at 
him almost with dismay. 

“You love her, then?” 

“Love her? Of course!” said Sonia with plaintive 
emphasis, and she clasped her hands in distress. “Ah, you 
don’t.... If you only knew! You see, she is quite like 
a child... . Her mind is quite unhinged, you see ... from 
sorrow. And how clever she used to be... how generous 
.-» how kind! Ah, you don’t understand, you don’t under- 
stand !” 

Sonia said this as though in despair, wringing her hands 
in excitement and distress. Her pale cheeks flushed, there 
was a look of anguish in her eyes. It was clear that she 
was stirred to the very depths, that she was longing to speak, 
to champion, to express something. A sort of insatiable 
compassion, if one may so express it, was reflected in every 
feature of her face. 

“Beat me! how can you? Good heavens, beat me! And 
if she did beat me, what then? What of it? You know 
nothing, nothing about it.... She is so unhappy... ah, 
how unhappy! And ill.... She is seeking righteousness, 
she is pure. She has such faith that there must be 
righteousness everywhere and she expects it.... And if 
you were to torture her, she wouldn’t do wrong. She 
doesn’t see that it’s impossible for people to be righteous 
and she is angry at it. Like a child, like a child. She is 
good !” 

“And what will happen to you?” 

Sonia looked at him inquiringly. 

“They are left on your hands, you see. They were all on 
your hands before, though. ... And your father came to 
you to beg for drink. Well, how will it be now?” 

“I don’t know,” Sonia articulated mournfully. 

“Will they stay there?” 


“I don’t know. ... They are in debt for the lodging, but 
the landlady, I hear, said to-day that she wanted to get rid 
of them, and Katerina Ivanovna says that she won't stay 
another minute.” 

“How is it she is so bold? She relies upon you?” 

“Oh, no, don’t talk like that. . . . We are one, we live like 
one.” Sonia was agitated again and even angry, as though a 
canary or some other little bird were to be angry. “And 
what could she do? What, what could she do?” she persisted, 
getting hot and excited. “And how she cried to-day! Her 
mind is unhinged, haven’t you noticed it? At one minute 
she is worrying like a child that everything should be right 
to-morrow, the lunch and all that. . . . Then she is wringing 
her hands, spitting blood, weeping, and all at once she will 
begin knocking her head against the wall, in despair. Then 
she will be comforted again. She builds all her hopes on 
you; she says that you will help her now and that she will 
borrow a little money somewhere and go to her native town 
with me and set up a boarding school for the daughters of 
gentlemen and take me to superintend it, and we will begin 
a new splendid life. And she kisses and hugs me, comforts 
me, and you know she has such faith, such faith in her 
fancies! One can’t contradict her. And all the day long she 
has been washing, cleaning, mending. She dragged the wash 
- tub into the room with her feeble hands and sank on the bed, 
gasping for breath. We went this morning to the shops to 
buy shoes for Polenka and Lida for theirs are quite worn 
out. Only the money we'd reckoned wasn’t enough, not 
nearly enough. And she picked out such dear little boots, 
for she has taste, you don’t know. And there in the shop she 
burst out crying before the shopmen because she hadn't 
enough. ... Ah, it was sad to see her... .” 

“Well, after that I can understand your living like this,” 
Raskolnikov said with a bitter smile. 

“And aren’t you sorry for them? Aren’t you sorry?” 
Sonia flew at him again. “Why, I know, you gave your 
last penny yourself, though you’d seen nothing of it, and 
if you’d seen everything, oh dear! And how often, how 
often I’ve brought her to tears! Only last week! Yes, 
I! Only a week before his death, I was cruel! And 



how often I’ve done it! Ah, I’ve been wretched at the 
thought of it all day!” 

Sonia wrung her hands as she spoke at the pain of remem- 
bering it. 

“You were cruel?” 

“Yes, I—I. I went to see them,” she went on, weeping, 
“and father said, ‘read me something, Sonia, my head aches, 
read to me, here’s a book.’ He had a book he had got from 
Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatnikov, he lives there, he 
always used to get hold of such funny books. And I said, 
‘I can’t stay,’ as I didn’t want to read, and I’d gone in chiefly 
to show Katerina Ivanovna some collars. Lizaveta, the 
pedlar, sold me some collars and cuffs cheap, pretty, new, 
embroidered ones. Katerina Ivanovna liked them very much; 
she put them on and looked at herself in the glass and was 
delighted with them. ‘Make me a present of them, Sonia,’ she 
said, ‘please do.’ ‘Please do, she said, she wanted them so 
much. And when could she wear them? They just reminded 
her of her old happy days. She looked at herself in the glass, 
admired herself, and she has no clothes at all, no things of 
her own, hasn’t had all these years! And she never asks 
any one for anything; she is proud, she'd sooner give away 
everything. And these she asked for, she liked them so much. 
And I was sorry to give them. ‘What use are they to you, 
Katerina Ivanovna?’ I said. I spoke like that to her, I ought 
not to have said that! She gave me such a look. And she 
was so grieved, so grieved at my refusing her. And it was 
so sad to see. .. . And she was not grieved for the collars, 
but for my refusing, I saw that. Ah, if only I could bring it 
all back, change it, take back those words! Ah,if I... but 
it’s nothing to you!” 

“Did you know Lizaveta, the pedlar?” 

“Yes. ... Did you know her?” Sonia asked with some 

“Katerina Ivanovna is in consumption, rapid consumption; 
she will soon die,” said Raskolnikov after a pause, without 
answering her question. 

“Oh, no, no, no!” 

And Sonia unconsciously clutched both his hands, as though 
imploring that she should not. 


“But it will be better if she does die.” 

“No, not better, not at all better!” Sonia unconscious! 
repeated in dismay. 

“And the children? What can you do except take them to 
live with you?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” cried Sonia, almost in despair, and she 
put her hands to her head. 

It was evident that that idea had very often occurred to her 
before and he had only roused it again. 

“And, what, if even now, while Katerina Ivanovna is alive, 
you get ill and are taken to the hospital, what will happen 
then?” he persisted pitilessly. 

“How can you? That cannot be!” < 

And Sonia’s face worked with awful terror. 

“Cannot be?” Raskolnikov went on with a harsh smile. 
“You are not insured against it, are you? What will happen 
to them then? They will be in the street, all of them, she 
will cough and beg and knock her head against some wall, as 
she did to-day, and the children will cry. ... Then she will 
fall down, be taken to the police station and to the hospital, 
she will die, and the children .. .” 

“Oh, no... . God will not let it be!” broke at last from 
Sonia’s overburdened bosom. 

She listened, looking imploringly at him, clasping her hands 
in dumb entreaty, as though it all depended upon him. 

Raskolnikov got up and began to walk about the room. A 
minute passed. Sonia was standing with her hands and her 
head hanging in terrible dejection. 

“And can’t you save? Put by for a rainy day?” he asked, 
stopping suddenly before her. 

“No,” whispered Sonia. 

“Of course not. Have you tried?’ he added almost 


“And it didn’t come off! Of course not! No need to ask.” 
And again he paced the room. Another minute passed. 

“You don’t get money every day?” 

Sonia was more confused than ever and colour rushed into 
her face again. 

“No,” she whispered with a painful effort. 


“It will be the same with Polenka, no doubt,” he said 

“No, no! It can’t be, no!” Sonia cried aloud in desperation, 
as though she had been stabbed. “God would not allow any- 
thing so awful!” 

“He lets others come to it.” 

“No, no! God will protect her, God!” she repeated beside 

“But, perhaps, there is no God at all,’ Raskolnikov 
answered with a sort of malignance, laughed and looked at 

Sonia’s face suddenly changed; a tremor passed over it. 
She looked at him with unutterable reproach, tried to say 
something, but could not speak and broke into bitter, bitter 
sobs, hiding her face in her hands. 

“You say Katerina Ivanovna’s mind is unhinged; your own 
mind is unhinged,” he said after a brief silence. 

Five minutes passed. He still paced up and down the room 
in silence, not looking at her. At last he went up to her; 
his eyes glittered. He put his two hands on her shoulders 
and looked straight into her tearful face. His eyes were 
hard, feverish and piercing, his lips were twitching. All at 
once he bent down quickly and dropping to the ground, kissed 
her foot. Sonia drew back from him as from a madman. 
And certainly he looked like a madman. 

“What are you doing to me?” she muttered, turning pale, 
and a sudden anguish clutched at her heart. 

He stood up at once. 

“I did not bow down to you, I bowed down to all the suffer- 
ing of humanity,’ he said wildly and walked away to the 
window. “Listen,” he added, turning to her a minute later. 
“I said just now to an insolent man that he was not worth 
your little finger . . . and that I did my sister honour making 
her sit beside you.” 

“Ach, you said that to them! And in her presence?” cried 
Sonia, frightened. “Sit down with me! An honour! Why, 
I’m ... dishonourable. ... Ah, why did you say that?” 

“It was not because of your dishonour and your sin I said 
that of you, but because of your great suffering. But you 
are a great sinner, that’s true,” he added almost solemnly, 


“and your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed 
yourself for nothing. Isn’t that fearful? Isn’t it fearful 
that you are living in this filth which you loathe so, and at 
the same time you know yourself (you've only to open your 
eyes) that you are not helping any one by it, not saving any 
one from anything! Tell me,’ he went on almost in a frenzy, 
“how this shame and degradation can exist in you side by 
side with other, opposite, holy feelings? It would be better, 
a thousand times better and wiser to leap into the water and 
end it all!” 

“But what would become of them?” Sonia asked faintly, 
gazing at him with eyes of anguish, but not seeming surprised 
at his suggestion. , 

Raskolnikov looked strangely at her. He read it all in her 
face; so she must have had that thought already, perhaps 
many times, and earnestly she had thought out in her despair 
how to end it and so earnestly, that now she scarcely won- 
dered at his suggestion. She had not even noticed the cruelty 
of his words. (The significance of his reproaches and his pe- 
culiar attitude to her shame she had, of course, not noticed 
either, and that, too, was clear to him.) But he saw how 
monstrously the thought of her disgraceful, shameful position 
was torturing her and had long tortured her. “What, what,” 
he thought, “could hitherto have hindered her from putting 
an end to it?” Only then he realized what those poor little 
orphan children and that pitiful half-crazy Katerina Ivan- 
ovna, knocking her head against the wall in her consumption, 
meant for Sonia. 

But, nevertheless, it was clear to him again that with her 
character and the amount of education she had after all 
received, she could not in any case remain so. He was still 
confronted by the question how could she have remained so 
long in that position without going out of her mind, since 
she could not bring herself to jump into the water? Of 
course he knew that Sonia’s position was an exceptional case, 
though unhappily not unique and not infrequent, indeed; but 
that very exceptionalness, her tinge of education, her previ- 
ous life might, one would have thought, have killed her at 
the first step on that revolting path. What held her up— 
surely not depravity? All that infamy had obviously only 



touched her mechanically, not one drop of real depravity had 
penetrated to her heart; he saw that. He saw through her 
as she stood before him.... 

“There are three ways before her,” he thought, “the canal, 
the madhouse, or ... at last to sink into depravity which 
obscures the mind and turns the heart to stone.” 

The last idea was the most revolting, but he was a sceptic, 
he was young, abstract, and therefore cruel, and so he could 
not help believing that the last end was the most likely. 

“But can that be true?” he cried to himself. “Can that 
creature who has still preserved the purity of her spirit be 
consciously drawn at last into that sink of filth and iniquity? 
Can the process already have begun? Can it be that she has 
only been able to bear it till now, because vice has begun to 
be less loathsome to her? No, no, that cannot be!” he cried, 
as Sonia had just before. ‘No, what has kept her from the 
canal till now is the idea of sin and they, the children. ... 
And if she has not gone out of her mind . . . but who says 
she has not gone out of her mind? Is she in her senses? 
Can one talk, can one reason as she does? How can she sit 
on the edge of the abyss of loathsomeness into which she is 
slipping and refuse to listen when she is told of danger? 
Does she expect a miracle? No doubt she does. Doesn't 
that all mean madness ?” 

He stayed obstinately at that thought. He liked that ex- 
planation indeed better than any other. He began looking 
more intently at her. 

“So you pray to God a great deal, Sonia?” he asked her. 

Sonia did not speak; he stood beside her waiting for an 

“What should I be without God?” she whispered rapidly, 
forcibly, glancing at him with suddenly flashing eyes, and 
squeezing his hand. 

“Ah, so that is it!’ he thought. 

“And what does God do for you?” he asked, probing her 

Sonia was silent a long while, as though she could not an- 
swer. Her weak chest kept heaving with emotion. 

“Be silent! Don’t ask! You don’t deserve!” she cried 
suddenly, looking sternly and wrathfully at him. 



“That’s it, that’s it,” he repeated to himself. 

“He does everything,” she whispered quickly, looking down 

“That’s the way out! That’s the explanation,” he decided, 
scrutinising her with eager curiosity, with a new, strange, 
almost morbid feeling. He gazed at that pale, thin, irregular, 
angular little face, those soft blue eyes, which could flash 
with such fire, such stern energy, that little body still shaking 
with indignation and anger—and it all seemed to him more 
and more strange, almost impossible. “She is a religious 
maniac!” he repeated to himself. 

There was a book lying on the chest of drawers. He had 
noticed it every time he paced up and down the room. Now 
he took it up and looked at it. It was the New Testament in 
the Russian translation. It was bound in leather, old and 

“Where did you get that?” he called to her across the room. 

She was still standing in the same place, three steps from 
the table. 

“It was brought me,” she answered, as it were unwillingly, 
not looking at him. 

“Who brought it?” 

“Lizaveta, I asked her for it.” 

“Lizaveta! strange!” he thought. 

Everything about Sonia seemed to him stranger and more 
wonderful every moment. He carried the book to the candle 
and began to turn over the pages. 

“Where is the story of Lazarus?” he asked suddenly. 

Sonia looked obstinately at the ground and would not an- 
swer. She was standing sideways to the table. 

“Where is the raising of Lazarus? Find it for me, Sonia.” 

She stole a glance at him. 

“You are not looking in the right place. ... It’s in the 
fourth gospel,” she whispered sternly, without looking at him. 

“Find it and read it to me,” he said. He sat down with his 
elbow on the table, leaned his head on his hand and looked 
away sullenly, prepared to listen. 

“In three weeks’ time they'll welcome me in the madhouse! 
I shall be there if I am not in a worse place,” he muttered to 


Sonia heard Raskolnikov’s request distrustfully and moved 
hesitating to the table. She took the book however. 

“Haven’t you read it?” she asked, looking up at him across 
the table. 

Her voice began sterner and sterner. 

“Long ago. ... WhenI was at school. Read!” 

“And haven’t you heard it in church?” 

“I... haven’t been. Do you often go?” 

“N-no,” whispered Sonia. 

Raskolnikov smiled. 

“T understand.... And you won’t go to your father’s 
funeral to-morrow ?” 

“Yes, I shall. I was at church last week, too.... I had 
a requiem service.” 

“For whom?” 

“For Lizaveta. She was killed with an axe.” 

His nerves were more and more strained. His head began 
to go round. 

“Were you friends with Lizaveta?” 

“Yes. ... She was good... she used to come... not 
often ... she couldn’t.... We used to read together and 
... talk. She will see God.” 

The last phrase sounded strange in his ears. And here was 
something new again: the mysterious meetings with Lizaveta 
and both of them—religious maniacs. 

“T shall be a religious maniac myself soon! It’s infec- 
tious !” 

“Read!” he cried irritably and insistently. 

Sonia still hesitated. Her heart was throbbing. She hardly 
dared to read to him. He looked almost with exasperation at 
the “unhappy lunatic.” 

“What for? You don’t believe? .. .” she whispered softly 
and as it were breathlessly. ! 

“Read! I want you to,” he persisted. “You used to read 
to Lizaveta.” 

Sonia opened the book and found the place. Her hands 
were shaking, her voice failed her. Twice she tried to begin 
and could not bring out the first syllable. 

“Now a certain man was sick named Lazarus of Bethany 
... she forced herself at last to read, but at the third word 


her voice broke like an overstrained string. There was a 
catch in her breath. 

Raskolnikov saw in part why Sonia could not bring herself 
to read to him and the more he saw this, the more roughly 
and irritably he insisted on her doing so. He understood only 
too well how painful it was for her to betray and unveil all 
that was her own. He understood that these feelings really 
were her secret treasure, which she had kept perhaps for 
years, perhaps from childhood, while she lived with an un- 
happy father and distracted stepmother crazed by grief, in the 
midst of starving children and unseemly abuse and re- 
proaches. But at the same time he knew now and knew for 
certain that, although it filled her with dread and sufferifig, 
yet she had a tormenting desire to read and to read to him 
that he might hear it, and to read now whatever might come 
of it! ... He read this in her eyes, he could see it in her 
intense emotion. She mastered herself, controlled the spasm 
in.her throat and went on reading the eleventh chapter of St. 
John. She went on to the nineteenth verse: 

“And many of the Jews came to Martha and Mary to com- 
fort them concerning their brother. 

Then Martha as soon as she heard that Jesus was coming 
went and met Him: but Mary sat stili in the house. 

Then said Martha unto Jesus, Lord, if Thou hadst been 
here, my brother had not died. 

But I know that even now whatsoever Thou wilt ask of 
God, God will give it Thee. .. .” 

Then she stopped again with a shamefaced feeling that her 
voice would quiver and break again. 

“Jesus said unto her, Thy brother shall rise again. 

Martha saith unto him, I know that he shall rise again in 
the resurrection, at the last day. 

Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection and the life: he 
that believeth in Me though he were dead, yet shall he live. 

And whosoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die. 
Believest thou this? 

She saith unto Him,” 

(And drawing a painful breath, Sonia read distinctly and 
forcibly as though she were making a public confession of 

faith, ) | 

DAM Sy etl orm Rrolsace Fe piak 


“Yea, Lord: I believe that Thou art the Christ, the Son of 
God Which should come into the world.” 

She stopped and looked up quickly at him, but controlling 
herself went on reading. Raskolnikov sat without moving, his 
elbows on the table and his eyes turned away. She read to 
the thirty-second verse. 

“Then when Mary was come where Jesus was and saw 
Him, she fell down at His feet, saying unto Him, Lord if 
Thou hadst been here, my brother had not died. 

When Jesus therefore saw her weeping, and the Jews also 
weeping which came with her, He groaned in the spirit and 
was troubled, 

And said, Where have you laid him? They said unto Him, 
Lord, come and see. 

Jesus wept. 

Then said the Jews, behold how He loved him! 

And some of them said, could not this Man Which opened 
the eyes of the blind, have caused that even this man should 
not have died?” 

Raskolnikov turned and looked at her with emotion. Yes, 
he had known it! She was trembling in a real physical fever. 
He had expected it. She was getting near the story of the 
greatest miracle and a feeling of immense triumph came over 
her. Her voice rang out like a bell; triumph and joy gave it 
power. The lines danced before her eyes, but she knew 
what she was reading by heart. At the last verse “Could not 
this Man Which opened the eyes of the blind . . .” dropping 
her voice she passionately reproduced the doubt, the reproach 
and censure of the blind disbelieving Jews, who in another 
moment would fall at His feet as though struck by thunder, 
sobbing and believing. ... “And he, he—too, is blinded and 
unbelieving, he, too, will hear, he, too, will believe, yes, yes! 
At once, now,” was what she was dreaming, and she was 
quivering with happy anticipation. 

“Jesus therefore again groaning in Himself cometh to the 
grave. It was a cave, and a stone lay upon it. 

Jesus said, Take ye away the stone. Martha, the sister of 
him that was dead, saith unto Him, Lord by this time he 
stinketh: for he hath been dead four days.” 

She laid emphasis on the word four. 


“Jesus saith unto her, Said I not unto thee that if thou 
wouldest believe, thou shouldest see the glory of God? 

Then they took away the stone from the place where the 
dead was laid. And Jesus lifted up His eyes and said, Father, 
I thank Thee that Thou hast heard Me. 

And I knew that Thou hearest Me always; but because of 
the people which stand by I said it, that they may believe that 
Thou hast sent Me. 

And when He thus had spoken, He cried with a loud voice, 
Lazarus, come forth. 

And he that was dead came forth.” 

(She read loudly, cold and trembling with ecstasy, as 
though she were seeing it before her eyes.) , 

“Bound hand and foot with gravecloths; and his face was 
bound about with a napkin. Jesus saith unto them, Loose him 
and let him go. 

Then many of the Jews which came to Mary and had seen 
the things which Jesus did believed on Him.” 

She could read no more, closed the book and got up from 
her chair quickly. 

“That is all about the raising of Lazarus,’ she whispered 
severely and abruptly, and turning away she stood motionless, 
not daring to raise her eyes to him. She still trembled fever- 
ishly. The candie-end was flickering out in the battered 
candlestick dimly lighting up in the poverty-stricken room 
the murderer and the harlot who had so strangely been 
reading together the eternal-book. Five minutes or more 

“IT came to speak of something,” Raskolnikov said aloud, 
frowning. He got up and went to Sonia. She lifted her eyes 
to him in silence. His face was particularly stern and there 
Was a sort of savage determination in it. 

“T have abandoned my family to-day,” he said, “my mother 
and sister. I am not going to see them. I’ve broken with 
them completely.” 

“What for?” asked Sonia amazed. Her recent meeting 
with his mother and sister had left a great impression which 
she could not analyse. She heard his news almost with 

“IT have only you now,” he added. “Let us go together. 


. -. I’ve come to you, we are both accursed, let us go our 
way together !” 

His eyes glittered “as though he were mad,” Sonia thought 
in her turn. 

“Go where?” she asked in alarm and she involuntarily 
stepped back. 

“How do I know? I only know it’s the same road, I know 
that and nothing more. It’s the same goal!” 

She looked at him and understood nothing. She knew only 
that he was terribly, infinitely unhappy. 

“No one of them will understand, if you tell them, but I 
have understood. I need you, that is why I have come to 

“T don’t understand,” whispered Sonia. 

“You'll understand later. Haven’t you done the same? 
You, too, have transgressed ... have had the strength to 
transgress. You have laid hands on yourself, you have 
destroyed a life. ... your own (it’s all the same!). You 
might have lived in spirit and understanding, but you'll end in 
the Hay Market. . . . But you won't be able to stand it, and 
if you remain alone you'll go out of your mind like me. You 
are like a mad creature already. So we must go together on 
the same road! Let us go!” 

“What for? What’s all this for?’ said Sonia, strangely 
and violently agitated by his words. 

“What for? Because you can’t remain like this, that’s 
why! You must look things straight in the face at last, and 
not weep like a child and cry that God won’t allow it. What 
will happen, if you should really be taken to the hospital 
to-morrow? She is mad and in consumption, she'll soon die 
and the children? Do you mean to tell me Polenka won’t 
come to grief? Haven’t you seen children here at the street 
corners sent out by their mothers to beg? I’ve found out 
where those mothers live and in what surroundings. Children 
can’t remain children there! At seven the child is vicious 
andathief. Yet children, you know, are the image of Christ: 
‘theirs is the kingdom of Heaven.’ He bade us honour and 
love them, they are the humanity of the future... .” 

“What’s to be done, what’s to be done?” repeated Sonia, 
weeping hysterically and wringing her hands. 


“What's to be done? Break what must be broken, once for 
all, that’s all, and take the suffering on oneself. What, you 
don’t understand? You'll understand later. ... Freedom 
and power, and above all, power! Over all trembling cre- 
ation and all the antheap!... That’s the goal, remember 
that! That’s my farewell message. Perhaps it’s the last 
time I shall speak to you. If I don’t come to-morrow, you'll 
hear of it all, and then remember these words. And some 
day later on, in years to come, you'll understand perhaps 
what they meant. If I come to-morrow, I’ll tell you who 
killed Lizaveta. . . . Good-bye.” 

Sonia started with terror. : 

“Why, do you know who killed her?” she asked, chilled 
with horror, looking wildly at him. 

“T know and will tell... you, only you. I have chosen 
you out. I’m not coming to you to ask forgiveness, but 
simply to tell you. I chose you out long ago to hear this, 
when your father talked of you and when Lizaveta was alive, 
I thought of it. Good-bye, don’t shake hands. To-morrow!” 

He went out. Sonia gazed at him as at a madman. But 
she herself was like one insane and felt it. Her head was 
going round. 

“Good heavens, how does he know who killed Lizaveta? 
What did those words mean? It’s awful!” But at the same 
time the idea did not enter her head, not fora moment! “Oh, 
he must be terribly unhappy! ... He has abandoned his 
mother and sister... What for? What has happened? 
And what had he in his mind? What did he say to her? 
He had kissed her foot and said ... said (yes, he had said 
it clearly) that he could not live without her. . . . Oh, merci- 
ful heavens!” 

Sonia spent the whole night feverish and delirious. She 
jumped up from time to time, wept and wrung her hands, 
then sank again into feverish sleep and dreamt of Polenka, 
Katerina Ivanovna and Lizaveta, of reading the gospel and 
him . . . him with pale face, with burning eyes . . . kissing 
her feet, weeping. 

On the other side of the door on the right, which divided 
Sonia’s room from Madame Resslich’s flat, was a room which 
had long stood empty. A card was fixed on the gate and a 


notice stuck in the windows over the canal advertising it to 
let. Sonia had long been accustomed to the room’s being 
uninhabited. But ail that time Mr. Svidrigailov had been 
standing, listening at the door of the empty room. When 
Raskolnikov went out he stood still, thought a moment, went 
on tiptoe to his own room which adjoined the empty one, 
brought a chair and noiselessly carried it to the door that led 
to Sonia’s room. The conversation had struck him as inter- 
esting and remarkable, and he had greatly enjoyed it—so 
much so that he brought a chair that he might not in the 
future, to-morrow, for instance, have to endure the incon- 
yenience of standing a whole hour, but might listen in 


HEN next morning at eleven o’clock punctually Rase- 
kolnikov went into the department of the investiga- 

tion of criminal causes and sent his name in to 
Porfiry Petrovitch, he was surprised at being kept waiting 
so long: it was at least ten minutes before he was summoned. 
He had expected that they would pounce upon him. But he 
stood in the waiting-room, and people, who apparently Had 
nothing to do with him, were continually passing to and fro 
_ before him. In the next room which looked like an office, 
several clerks were sitting writing and obviously they had 
no notion who or what Raskolnikov might be. He looked 
uneasily and suspiciously about him to see whether there was 
not some guard, some mysterious watch being kept on him to 
prevent his escape. But there was nothing of the sort, he 
saw only the faces of clerks absorbed in petty details, then 
other people, no one seemed to have any concern with him. 
He might go where he liked for them. The conviction grew 
stronger in him that if that enigmatic man of yesterday, that 
. phantom sprung out of the earth, had seen everything, they 
would not have let him stand and wait like that. And would 
they have waited till he.elected to appear at eleven? Either 
the man had not yet given information, or . .. or simply he 
knew nothing, had seen nothing (and how could he have seen 
anything?) and so all that had happened to him the day 
before was again a phantom exaggerated by his sick and 
overstrained imagination. This conjecture had begun to grow 
strong the day before, in the midst of all his alarm and de- 

Thinking it all over now and preparing for a fresh con- 
flict, he was suddenly aware that he was trembling—and 
he felt a rush of indignation at the thought that he was trem- 
bling with fear at facing that hateful Porfiry Petrovitch. 
What he dreaded above all was meeting that man again; he 
hated him with an intense, unmitigated hatred and was afraid 



his hatred might betray him. His indignation was such that 
he ceased trembling at once; he made ready to go in with 
a cold and arrogant bearing and vowed to himself to keep 
as silent as possible, to watch and listen and for once at least 
to control his overstrained nerves. At that moment he was 
summoned to Porfiry Petrovitch. 

He found Porfiry Petrovitch alone in his study. His study 
was a room neither large nor small, furnished with a large 
writing-table, that stood before a sofa, upholstered in checked 
material, a bureau, a bookcase in the corner and several 
chairs—all government furniture, of polished yellow wood. 
In the further wall there was a closed door, beyond it there 
were no doubt other rooms. On Raskolnikov’s entrance Por- 
firy Petrovitch had at once closed the door by which he had 
come in and they remained alone. He met his visitor with 
an apparently genial and good-tempered air, and it was only 
after a few minutes that Raskolnikov saw signs of a certain 
awkwardness in him, as though he had been thrown out of 
his reckoning or caught in something very secret. 

“Ah, my dear fellow! Here you are ... in our domain” 
» - « began Porfiry, holding out both hands to him. ‘Come, 
sit down, old man... or perhaps you don’t like to be called 
‘my dear fellow’ and ‘old man’—tout court? Please don’t 
think it too familiar. ... Here, on the sofa.” 

Raskolnikov sat down, keeping his eyes fixed on him. “In 
our domain,” the apologies for familiarity, the French phrase 
tout court, were all characteristic signs. 

“He held out both hands to me, but he did not give me one 
—he drew it back in time,” struck him suspiciously. Both 
were watching each other, but when their eyes met, quick as 

lightning they looked away. 
_ “T brought you this paper... about the watch. Here it 
is, Is it all right or shall I copy it again?” 

“What? <A paper? Yes, yes, don’t be uneasy, it’s all 
right,” Porfiry Petrovitch said as though in haste, and after 
he had said it he took the paper and looked at it. “Yes, it’s 
all right. Nothing more is needed,” he declared with the same 
rapidity and he laid the paper on the table. 

A minute later when he was talking of something else he 
took it from the table and put it on his bureau. 


“I believe you said yesterday you would like to question 
me... formally ... about my acquaintance with the mur- 
dered woman?” Raskolnikov was beginning again. “Why 
did I put in ‘I believe’” passed through his mind in a flash. 
“Why am I so uneasy at having put in that ‘J believe’?” came 
in a second flash. And he suddenly felt that his uneasiness at 
the mere contact with Porfiry, at the first words, at the first 
looks, had grown in an instant to monstrous proportions, and 
that this was fearfully dangerous. His nerves were quiver- 
ing, his emotion was increasing. “It’s bad, it’s bad! I shall 
say too much again.” 

“Yes, yes, yes! There’s no hurry, there’s no hurry,” mut- 
tered Porfiry Petrovitch, moving to and fro about the table 
without any apparent aim, as it were making dashes towards 
the window, the bureau and the table, at one moment avoid- 
ing Raskolnikovs’ suspicious glance, then again standing 
still and looking him straight in the face. 

His fat round little figure looked very strange, like a ball 
rolling from one side to the other and rebounding back. 

“We've plenty of time. Do you smoke? have you your 
own? Here, a cigarette!’ he went on, offering his visitor a 
cigarette. “You know I am receiving you here, but my own 
quarters are through there, you know, my government 
quarters. But I am living outside for the time, I had to 
have some repairs done here. It’s almost finished now... . 
Government quarters, you know, are a capital thing. Eh, 
what do you think?” 

“Yes, a capital thing,” answered Raskolnikov, looking at 
him almost ironically. 

“A capital thing, a capital thing,” repeated Porfiry Petro- 
vitch, as though he had just thought of something quite 
different. “Yes, a capital thing,” he almost shouted at last, 
suddenly staring at Raskolnikov and stopping short two steps 
from him. 

This stupid repetition was too incongruous in its inepitude 
with the serious, brooding and enigmatic glance he turned 
upon his visitor. 

But this stirred Raskolnikov’s spleen more than ever and 
he could not resist an ironical and rather incautious 


“Tell me, please,” he asked suddenly, looking almost inso- 
lently at him and taking a kind of pleasure in his own inso- 
lence. “I believe it’s a sort of legal rule, a sort of legal 
tradition—for all investigating lawyers—to begin their attack 
from afar, with a trivial, or at least an irrelevant subject, 
so as to encourage, or rather, to divert the man they are 
cross-examining, to disarm his caution and then all at once 
to give him an unexpected knock-down blow with some fatal 
question. Isn’t that so? It’s a sacred tradition, mentioned, 
I fancy, in all the manuals of the art?” 

“Yes, yes... . Why, do you imagine that was why I spoke 
about government quarters ... eh?” 

And as he said this Porfiry Petrovitch screwed up his eyes 
and winked; a good-humoured, crafty look passed over his 
face. The wrinkles on his forehead were smoothed out, his 
eyes contracted, his features broadened and he suddenly went 
off into a nervous prolonged laugh, shaking all over and look- 
ing Raskolnikov straight in the face. The latter forced 
_ himself to laugh, too, but when Porfiry, seeing that he was 
laughing, broke into such a guffaw that he turned almost 
crimson, Raskolnikov’s repulsion overcame all precaution; 
he left off laughing, scowled and stared with hatred at Por- 
fry, keeping his eyes fixed on him while his intentionally 
prolonged laughter lasted. There was lack of precaution on 
both sides, however, for Porfiry Petrovitch seemed to be 
laughing in his visitor’s face and to be very little disturbed at 
the annoyance with which the visitor received it. The latter 
fact was very significant in Raskolnikov’s eyes: he saw that 
Porfiry Petrovitch had not been embarrassed just before 
either, but that he, Raskolnikov, had perhaps fallen into a 
trap; that there must be something, some motive here un- 
known to him; that, perhaps, everything was in readiness and 
in another moment would break upon him. ... 

He went straight to the point at once, rose from his seat 
and took his cap. 

“Porfiry Petrovitch,’ he began resolutely, though with 
considerable irritation, “yesterday you expressed a desire 
that I should come to you for some inquiries (he laid special 
stress on the word ‘inquiries’). I have come and, if you 
have anything to ask me, ask it, and if not, allow me to 


withdraw. I have no time to spare. ... I have to be at the 
funeral of that man who was run over, of whom you... 
know also,” he added, feeling angry at once at having made 
this addition and more irritated at his anger, “I am sick of 
it all, do you hear, and have long been. It’s partly what 
made me ill. In short,” he shouted, feeling that the phrase 
about his illness was still more out of place, “in short, kindly 
examine me or let me go, at once. And if you must examine 
me, do so in the proper form! I will not allow you to do 
so otherwise, and so meanwhile, good-bye, as we have evi- 
dently nothing to keep us now.” 

“Good heavens! What do you mean? What shall I ques- 
tion you about?” cackled Porfiry Petrovitch with a charige 
of tone, instantly leaving off laughing. “Please don’t dis- 
turb yourself,’ he began fidgeting from place to place and 
fussily making Raskolnikov sit down. “There’s no hurry, 
there’s no hurry, it’s all nonsense. Oh, no, ’m very glad 
you’ve come to see me at last... I look upon you simply 
as a visitor. And as for my confounded laughter, please 
excuse it, Rodion Romanovitch. Rodion Romanovitch? 
That is your name? ... It’s my nerves, you tickled me so 
with your witty observation; I assure you, sometimes I shake 
with laughter like an india-rubber ball for half an hour at 
a time. ... I’m often afraid of an attack of paralysis. Do 
- sit down. Please do, or I shall think you are angry...” 

Raskolnikov did not speak; he listened, watching him, still 
frowning angrily. He did sit-down, but still held his cap. 

“T must tell you one thing about myself, my dear Rodion 
Romanovitch,” Porfiry Petrovitch continued, moving about 
the room and again avoiding his visitor’s eyes. “You see, 
I’m a bachelor, a man of no consequence and not used to 
society; besides, I have nothing before me, I’m set, I’m 
running to seed and...and have you noticed, Rodion 
Romanovitch, that in our Petersburg circles, if two clever 
men meet who are not intimate, but respect each other, like 
you and me, it takes them half an hour before they can find 
a subject for conversation—they are dumb, they sit opposite 
each other and feel awkward. Every one has subjects of 
conversation, ladies for instance . . . people in high society 
always have their subjects of conversation, c’est de rigueur, 


but people of the middle sort like us, thinking people that is, 
are always tongue-tied and awkward. What is the reason 
of it? Whether it is the lack of public interest, or whether 
it is we are so honest we don’t want to deceive one another, 
I don’t know. What do you think? Do put down your cap, 
it looks as if you were just going, it makes me uncomfort- 
able ... I anf so delighted .. .” 

Raskolnikov put down his cap and continued listening in 
silence with a serious frowning face to the vague and empty 
chatter of Porfiry Petrovitch. “Does he really want to dis- 
tract my attention with his silly babble?” 

“T can’t offer you coffee here: but why not spend five 
minutes with a friend,’ Porfiry pattered on, “and you know 
all these official duties ... please don’t mind my running 
up and down, excuse it, my dear fellow, I am very much 
afraid of offending you, but exercise is absolutely indispensa- 
ble for me. I’m always sitting and so glad to be moving 
about for five minutes ... I suffer from my sedentary life 
...I1 always intend to join a gymnasium; they say that 
officials of all ranks, even Privy Councillors may be seen 
skipping gaily there; there you have it, modern science... 
yes, yes.... But as for my duties here, inquiries and all 
such formalities ... you mentioned inquiries yourself just 
now ...I assure you these interrogations are sometimes 
more embarrassing for the interrogator than for the inter- 
rogated. ... You made the observation yourself just now 
very aptly and wittily. (Raskolnikov had made no observa- 
tion of the kind.) One gets into a muddle! A regular 
muddle! One keeps harping on the same note, like a drum! 
There is to be a reform and we shall be called by a different 
name, at least, he-he-he! And as for our legal tradition, as 
you so wittily called it, I thoroughly agree with you. Every 
prisoner on trial, even the rudest peasant knows, that they 
begin by disarming him with irrelevant questions (as you so 
happily put it) and then deal him a knock-down blow, he- 
he-he!—your felicitous comparison, he-he! So you really 
imagined that I meant by government quarters . .. he-he! 
You are an ironical person. Come, I won’t go on! Ah, by 
the way, yes! One word leads to another. You spoke of 
formality just now, apropos of the inquiry, you know. But 


what’s the use of formality? In many cases it’s nonsense. 
Sometimes one has a friendly chat and gets a good deal more 
out of it. One can always fall back on formality, allow me 
to assure you. And after all, what does it amount to? An 
examining lawyer cannot be bounded by formality at every 
step. The work of investigation is, so to speak, a free art 
in its own way, he-he-he!” 

Porfiry Petrovitch took breath a moment. He had simply 
babbled on uttering empty phrases, letting slip a few enig- 
matic words and again reverting to incoherence. He was 
almost running about the room, moving his fat little legs 
quicker and quicker, looking at the ground, with his right 
hand behind his back, while with his left making gesticula- 
tions that were extraordinarily incongruous with his words. 
Raskolnikov suddenly noticed that as he ran about the room 
he seemed twice to stop for a moment near the door, as 
though he were listening. 

“Is he expecting anything?” 

“You are certainly quite right about it,” Porfiry began 
gaily, looking with extraordinary simplicity at Raskolnikov 
(which startled him and instantly put him on his guard) 
“certainly quite right in laughing so wittily at our legal 
forms, he-he! Some of these elaborate psychological meth- 
ods are exceedingly ridiculous and perhaps useless, if one 
adheres too closely to the forms. Yes... I am talking of 
forms again. Well, if I recognise, or more strictly speaking, 
if I suspect some one or other to be a criminal in any case 
entrusted to me... you’re reading for the law, of course, 
Rodion Romanovitch ?” 

“Yes, Towas isla) 

“Well, then it is a precedent for you for the future— 
though don’t suppose I should venture to instruct you after 
the articles you publish about crime! No, simply I make 
bold to state it by way of a fact, if I took this man or that 
for a criminal, why, I ask, should I worry him prematurely, 
even though I had evidence against him? In one case I may 
be bound, for instance, to arrest a man at once, but another 
may be in quite a different position, you know, so why 
shouldn’t I let him walk about the town a bit, he-he-he! But 
it see you don’t quite understand, so I'll give you a clearer 



example. If I put him in prison too soon, I may very 
likely give him so to speak, moral support, he-he! You’re 
laughing ?” 

Raskolnikov had no idea of laughing. He was sitting with 
compressed lips, his feverish eyes fixed on Porfiry Pet- 

“Yet that is the case, with some types especially, for men 
are so different. You say evidence. Well, there may be 
evidence. But evidence, you know, can generally be taken 
two ways. I am an examining lawyer and a weak man I 
confess it. I should like to make a proof, so to say, mathe- 
matically clear, I should like to make a chain of evidence such 
as twice two are four, it ought to be a direct, irrefutable 
proof! And if I shut him up too soon—even though I might 
be convinced he was the man, I should very likely be depriv- 
ing myself of the means of getting further evidence against 
him. And how? By giving him, so to speak, a definite 
position, I shall put him out of suspense and set his mind 
at rest, so that he will retreat into his shell. They say that 
at Sevastopol, soon after Alma, the clever people were in 
a terrible fright that the enemy would attack openly and 
take Sevastopol at once. But when they saw that the enemy 
preferred a regular siege, they were delighted, I am told and 
reassured, for the thing would drag on for two months at 
least. You’re laughing, you don’t believe me again? Of 
course, you're right, too. You're right, you’re right. These 
are all special cases, I admit. But you must observe this, 
my dear Rodion Romanovitch, the general case, the case for 
which all legal forms and rules are intended, for which they 
are calculated and laid down in books, does not exist at all, 
for the reason that every case, every crime for instance, so 
soon as it actually occurs, at once becomes a thoroughly 
special case and sometimes a case unlike any that’s gone be- 
fore. Very comic cases of that sort sometimes occur. If I 
leave one man quite alone, if I don’t touch him and don’t 
worry him, but let him know or at least suspect every 
moment that I know all about it and am watching him day 
and night, and if he is in continual suspicion and terror, he’ll 
be bound to lose his head. He’ll come of himself, or maybe 
do something which will make it as plain as twice two are 


four—it’s delightful. It may be so with a simple peasant, 
but with one of our sort, an intelligent man cultivated on a 
certain side, it’s a dead certainty. For, my dear fellow, it’s 
a very important matter to know on what side a man is 
cultivated. And then there are nerves, there are nerves, 
you have overlooked them! Why, they are all sick, nervous 
and irritable! . . . And then how they all suffer from spleen! 
That I assure you is a regular gold mine for us. And it’s 
no anxiety to me, his running about the town free! Let him, 
let him walk about for a bit! I know well enough that I’ve 
caught him and that he won’t escape me. Where could he 
escape to, he-he? Abroad, perhaps? A Pole will escape 
abroad, but not he, especially as I am watching and havé 
taken measures. Will he escape into the depths of the coun- 
try perhaps? But you know, peasants live there, real rude 
Russian peasants. A modern cultivated man would prefer 
prison to living with such strangers as our peasants. He-he! 
But that’s all nonsense, and on the surface. It’s not merely 
that he has nowhere to run to, he is psychologically unable 
to escape me, he-he! What an expression! Through a law 
of nature he can’t escape me if he had anywhere to go. Have 
you seen a butterfly round a candle? That’s how he will 
keep circling and circling round me. Freedom will lose its 
attractions. He’ll begin to brood, he’ll weave a tangle round 
himself, he’ll worry himseif to death! What’s more he will 
provide me with a mathematical proof—if I only give him 
long enough interval. ... And he’ll keep circling round me, 
getting nearer and nearer and then—flop! He'll fly straight 
into my mouth and I'll swallow him, and that will be very 
amusing, he-he-he! You don’t believe me?” 

Raskolnikov made no reply; he sat pale and motionless, 
still gazing with the same intensity into Porfiry’s face. 

“Tt’s a lesson,” he thought, turning cold. “This is beyond 
the cat playing with a mouse, like yesterday. He can’t be 
showing off his power with no motive ... prompting me; 
he is far too clever for that ...he must have another 
object. What is it? It’s all nonsense, my friend, you are 
pretending, to scare me! You’ve no proofs and the man I 
saw had no real existence. You simply want to make me 
lose my head, to work me up beforehand and so to crush me. 


But you are wrong, you won't do it! But why give me such 
a hint? Is he reckoning on my shattered nerves? No, my 
friend, you are wrong, you won't do it even though you have 
some trap for me... let us see what you have in store for 

And he braced himself to face a terrible and unknown or- 
deal. At times he longed to fall on Porfiry and strangle him. 
This anger was what he dreaded from the beginning. He 
felt that his parched lips were flecked with foam, his heart 
was throbbing. But he was still determined not to speak till 
the right moment. He realised that this was the best policy 
in his position, because instead of saying too much he would 
be irritating his enemy by his silence and provoking him into 
speaking too freely. Anyhow, this was what he hoped for. 

“No, I see you don’t believe me, you think I am playing a 
harmless joke on you,” Porfiry began again, getting more 
and more lively, chuckling at every instant and again pacing 
round the room. “And to be sure you’re right: God has 
given me a figure that can awaken none but comic ideas in 
other people; a buffoon; but let me tell you and I repeat it, 
excuse an old man, my dear Rodion Romanovitch, you are 
a man still young, so to say, in your first youth and so you 
put intellect above everything, like all young people. Playful 
wit and abstract arguments fascinate you and that’s for all 
the world like the old Austrian Hof-kriegsrath, as far as I 
can judge of military matters that is: on paper they’d beaten 
Napoleon and taken him prisoner, and there in their study 
they worked it all out in the cleverest fashion, but look you, 
General Mack surrendered with all his army, he-he-he! I 
see, I see, Rodion Romanovitch, you are laughing at a civil- 
ian like me, taking examples out of military history! But 
I can’t help it, it’s my weakness. I am fond of military 
science. And I’m ever so fond of reading all military his- 
tories. I’ve certainly missed my proper career. I ought to 
have been in the army, upon my word I ought. I shouldn’t 
have been a Napoleon, but I might have’ been a major, 
he-he-he! Well, I will tell you the whole truth, my dear 
fellow, about this special case, I mean: actual fact and a 
man’s temperament, my dear sir, are weighty matters and 
it’s astonishing how they sometimes deceive the sharpest cal- 


culation! I—listen to an old man—am speaking seriously, 
Rodion Romanovitch (as he said this Porfiry Petrovitch who 
was scarcely five and thirty actually seemed to have grown 
old; even his voice changed and he seemed to shrink to- 
gether) moreover, I’m a candid man... am I a candid man 
or not? What do you say? I fancy I really am: I tell you 
these things for nothing and don’t even expect a reward for 
it, he-he! Well, to proceed, wit in my opinion is a splendid 
thing, it is, so to say, an adornment of nature and a consola- 
tion of life, and what tricks it can play! So that it sometimes 
is hard for a poor examining lawyer to know where he is, es- 
pecially when he’s liable to be carried away by his own fancy, 
too, for you know he is a man after all! But the poor fellow 
is saved by the criminal’s temperament, worse luck for him! 
But young people carried away by their own wit don’t think 
of that ‘when they overstep all obstacles’ as you wittily and 
cleverly expressed it yesterday. He will lie—that is the man 
who is a special case, the incognito, and he will lie well, 
in the cleverest fashion; you might think he would triumph 
and enjoy the fruits of his wit, but at the most interesting, 
the most flagrant moment he will faint. Of course there 
may be illness and a stuffy room as well, but anyway! Any- 
way he’s given us the idea! He lied incomparably, but he 
didn’t reckon on his temperament. That’s what betrays 
him! Another time he will be carried away by his playful 
wit into making fun of the man who suspects him, he will 
turn pale as it were on purpose to mislead, but his paleness 
will be too natural, too much like the real thing, again he 
has given us an idea! Though his questioner may be de- 
ceived at first, he will think differently next day if he is not 
a fool, and, of course, it is like that at every step! He puts 
himself forward where he is not wanted, speaks continually 
when he ought to keep silent, brings in all sorts of allegori- 
cal allusions, he-he! Comes and asks why didn’t you take me 
long ago, he-he-he! And that can happen, you know, with 
the cleverest man, the psychologist, the literary man. The 
temperament reflects everything like a mirror! Gaze into 
it and admire what you see! But why are you so pale, 
Rodion Romanovitch? Is the room stuffy? Shall I open the 
window ?” 


“Oh, don’t trouble, please,” cried Raskolnikov and he sud- 
denly broke into a laugh. “Please don’t trouble.” 

Porfiry stood facing him, paused a moment and suddenly 
he too laughed. Raskolnikov got up from the sofa, abruptly 
checking his hysterical laughter. 

“Porfiry Petrovitch,” he began, speaking loudly and dis- 
tinctly, though his legs trembled and he could scarcely stand. 
“T see clearly at last that you actually suspect me of murder- 
ing that old woman and her sister Lizaveta. Let me tell 
you for my part that I am sick of this. If you find that you 
have a right to prosecute me legally, to arrest me, then 
prosecute me, arrest me. But I will not let myself be jeered 
at to my face and worried .. .” 

His lips trembled, his eyes glowed with fury and he could 
not restrain his voice. 

“IT won't allow it!’ he shouted, bringing his first down on 
the table. “Do you hear that, Porfiry Petrovitch? I won't 
allow it.” | 

“Good heavens! What does it mean?” cried Porfiry Petro- 
vitch, apparently quite frightened. ‘“Rodion Romanovitch, 
my dear fellow, what is the matter with you?” 

“T won't allow it,’ Raskolnikov shouted again. 

“Hush, my dear man! They'll hear and come in. Just 
think, what could we say to them?’ Porfiry Petrovitch 
whispered in horror, bringing his face close to Raskolnikov’s. 

“T won't allow it, I won't allow it,’ Raskolnikov repeated 

mechanically, but he too spoke in a sudden whisper. 

*  Porfiry turned quickly and ran to open the window. 

“Some fresh air! And you must have some water, my 
dear fellow. You're ill!” and he was running to the door 
to call for some when he found a decanter of water in 
the corner. ‘Come, drink a little,’ he whispered, rushing 
up to him with the decanter. “It will be sure to do you 

Porfiry Petrovitch’s alarm and sympathy were so natural 
that Raskolnikov was silent and began looking at him with 
wild curiosity. He did not take the water however. 

“Rodion Romanovitch, my dear fellow, you’ll drive your- 
self out of your mind, I assure you, ach, ach! Have some 
water, do drink a little.” 


He forced him to take the glass. Raskolnikov raised it 
mechanically to his lips, but set it on the table again with 

“Yes, you’ve had a little attack! You'll bring back your 
illness again, my dear fellow,” Porfiry Petrovitch cackled 
with friendly sympathy, though he still looked rather dis- 
concerted. “Good heavens, you must take more care of 
yourself! Dmitri Prokofitch was here, came to see me yes- 
terday—I know, I know, I’ve a nasty, ironical temper, but 
what they made of it! . . . Good heavens, he came yesterday 
after you’d been. We dined and he talked and talked away, 
and I could only throw up my hands in despair! Did he 
come from you? But do sit down, for mercy’s sake, sit 
down !” 

“No, not from me, but I knew he went to you and’ why 
he went,” Raskolnikov answered sharply. 

“You knew?” 

“I knew. What of it?” 

“Why this, Rodion Romanovitch, that I know more than 
that about you; I know about everything, I know how you 
went io take a flat at night when it was dark and how you 
rang the bell and asked about the blood, so that the workmen 
and the porter did not know what to make of it. Yes, I 
understand your state of mind at that time... but you'll 
drive yourself mad like that, upon my word! You'll lose 
your head! You're full of generous indignation at the 
wrongs you've received, first from destiny, and then from 
the police officers, and so you rush from one thing to another 
to force them to speak out and make an end of it all, because 
you are sick of all this suspicion and foolishness. That’s so, 
isn’t it? I have guessed how you feel, haven’t I? Only in 
that way you'll lose your head and Razumihin’s, too; he’s 
too good a man for such a position, you must know that. 
You are ill and he is good and your illness is infectious for 
him... Pll tell you about it when you are more yourself. 
. -. But do sit down, for goodness’ sake. Please rest, you 
look shocking, do sit down.” 

Raskolnikov sat down; he no longer shivered, he was hot 
all over. In amazement he listened with strained attention 
to Porfiry Petrovitch who still seemed frightened as he 


looked after him with friendly solicitude. But he did not 
believe a word he said, though he felt a strange inclination 
to believe. Porfiry’s unexpected words about the flat had 
utterly overwhelmed him. “How can it be, he knows about 
the flat then,” he thought suddenly, “and he tells it me 
himself !” 

“Yes, in our legal practice there was a case almost exactly 
similar, a case of morbid psychology,’ Porfiry went on 
quickly. “A man confessed to murder and how he kept it 
up! It was a regular hallucination; he brought forward 
facts, he imposed upon every one and why? He had been 
partly, but only partly, unintentionally the cause of a murder 
and when he knew that he had given the murderers the 
opportunity, he sank into dejection, it got on his mind and 
turned his brain, he began imagining things and he persuaded 
himself that he was the murderer. But at last the High 
Court of Appeal went into it and the poor fellow was ac- 
quitted and put under proper care. Thanks to the Court of 
Appeal! Tut-tut-tut! Why, my dear fellow, you may drive 
yourself into delirium if you have the impulse to work upon > 
your nerves, to go ringing bells at night and asking about 
blood! I’ve studied all this morbid psychology in my 
practice. A man is sometimes tempted to jump out of win- 
dow or from a belfry. Just the same with bell-ringing. ... 
It’s all illness, Rodion Romanovitch! You have begun 
to neglect your illness. You should consult an ex- 
perienced doctor, what’s the good of that fat fellow? You 
are light-headed! You were delirious when you did all 
this !” 

For a moment Raskolnikov felt everything going round. 

“Is it possible, is it possible,” flashed through his mind, 
“that he is still lying? He can’t be, he can’t be.” He re- 
jected that idea, feeling to what a degree of fury it might 
drive him, feeling that that fury might drive him mad. 

“I was not delirious. I knew what I was doing,” he cried, 
straining every faculty to penetrate Porfiry’s game, “I was 
quite myself, do you hear?” 

“Yes, I hear and understand. You said yesterday you were 
not delirious, you were particularly emphatic about it! I 
understand all you can tell me! A-ach!... Listen, Rodion 


Romanovitch, my dear fellow. If you were actually a crim- 
inal, or were somehow mixed up in this damnable business, 
would you insist that you were not delirious but in full 
possession of your faculties? And so emphatically and per- 
sistently? Would it be possible? Quite impossible, to my 
thinking. If you had anything on your conscience, you cer- 
tainly ought to insist that you were delirious. ‘That’s so, 
isn’t it?” 

There was a note of slyness in this inquiry. Raskolnikov 
drew back on the sofa as Porfiry bent over him and stared 
in silent perplexity at him. 

“Another thing about Razumihin—you certainly ought to 
have said that he came of his own accord, to have concealed 
your part in it! But you don’t conceal it! You lay stress 
on his coming at your instigation.” 

Raskolnikov had not done so. A chill went down his 

“You keep telling lies,” he said slowly and weakly, twist- 
ing his lips into a sickly smile, “you are trying again to show 
that you know all my game, that you know all I shall say 
beforehand,” he said, conscious himself that he was not 
weighing his words as he ought. “You want to frighten me 

. Or you are simply laughing at me...” 

He still stared at him as he said this and again there was 
a light of intense hatred in his eyes. 

“You keep lying,” he cried. “You know perfectly well that 
the best policy for the criminal is to tell the truth as nearly 
as possible . . . to conceal as little as possible. I don’t be- 
lieve you!” 

“What a wily person you are!’’ Porfiry tittered, “there’s 
no catching you; you’ve a perfect monomania. So you don’t 
believe me? But still you do believe me, you believe a 
quarter; I’ll soon make you believe the whole, because I 
have a sincere liking for you and genuinely wish you good. cs 

Raskolnikov’s lips trembled. 

“Yes, I do,” went on Porfiry, touching Raskolnikov’s arm 
genially, “you must take care of your illness. Besides, your 
mother and sister are here now; you must think of them. 
You must soothe and comfort them and you do nothing but 
frighten them .. .” 



“What has that to do with you? How do you know it? 
What concern is it of yours? You are keeping watch on 
me and want to let me know it?” 

“Good heavens! Why, I learnt it all from you yourself! 
You don’t notice that in your excitement you tell me and 
others everything. From Razumihin, too, I learnt a number 
of interesting details yesterday. No, you interrupted me, but 
I must tell you that, for all your wit, your suspiciousness 
makes you lose the common-sense view’ of things. To return 
to bell-ringing, for instance. I, an examining lawyer, have 
betrayed a precious thing like that, a real fact (for it is a 
fact worth having), and you see nothing in it! Why, if I 
had the slightest suspicion of you, should I have acted like 
that? No, I should first have disarmed your suspicions and 
not let you see I knew of that fact, should have diverted 
your attention and suddenly have dealt you a knock-down 
blow (your expression) saying: ‘And what were you doing, 
sir, pray, at ten or nearly eleven at the murdered woman’s 
flat and why did you ring the bell and why did you ask about 
blood? And why did you invite the porters to go with you 
to the police-station, to the lieutenant? That’s how I ought 
to have acted if I had a grain of suspicion of you. I ought 
to have taken your evidence in due form, searched your 
lodging and perhaps have arrested you, too... so I have 
no suspicion of you, since I have not done that! But 
you can’t look at it normally and you see nothing, I say 

Raskolnikov started so that Porfiry Petrovitch could not 
fail to perceive it. 

“You are lying all the while,’ he cried, “I don’t know 
your object, but you are lying. You did not speak like that 
just now and I cannot be mistaken !” 

“T am lying?” Porfiry repeated, apparently incensed, but 
preserving a good-humoured and ironical face, as though he 
were not in the least concerned at Raskolnikov’s opinion of 
him. “I am lying ... but how did I treat you just now, I, 
the examining lawyer? Prompting you and every 
means for your defence; illness, I said, delirium, injury, 
melancholy and the police officers and all the rest of it? Ah! 
He-he-he! Though, indeed, all those psychological means 


of defence are not very reliable and cut both ways: illness, 
delirium, I don’t remember—that’s all right, but why, my 
good sir, in your illness and in your delirium were you 
haunted by just those delusions and not by any others? 
There may have been others, eh? He-he-he!” 

Raskolnikov looked haughtily and contemptuously at him. 

“Briefly,” he said loudly and imperiously, rising to his feet 
and in so doing pushing Porfiry back a little, “briefly, I want 
to know, do you acknowledge me perfectly free from suspi- 
cion or not? Tell me, Porfiry Petrovitch, tell me once for 
all and make haste!” 

“What a business I’m having with you!” cried Porfiry with 
a perfectly good-humoured, sly and composed face. “And 
why do you want to know, why do you want to know so 
much, since they haven’t begun to worry you? Why, you 
are like a child asking for matches! And why are you so 
uneasy? Why do you force yourself upon us, eh? He- 
he-he !” 

“T repeat,” Raskolnikov cried furiously, “that I can’t put 
up with it!” 

“With what? Uncertainty?” interrupted Porfiry. 

“Don’t jeer at me! I won't have it! I tell you I won't 
have it. I can’t and I won’t, do you hear, do you hear?” he 
shouted, bringing his fist down on the table again. 

“Hush! Hush! They’ll overhear! I warn you seriously, 
take care of yourself. I am not joking,’ Porfiry whispered, 
but this time there was not the look of old womanish good- 
nature and alarm in his face. Now he was peremptory, 
stern, frowning and for once laying aside all mystification. 

But this was only for an instant. Raskolnikov, bewildered, 
suddenly fell into actual frenzy, but, strange to say, he again 
obeyed the command to speak quietly, though he was in a 
perfect paroxysm of fury. 

“T will not allow myself to be tortured,” he whispered, in- 
stantly recognising with hatred that he could not help obeying 
the command and driven to even greater fury by the thought. 
“Arrest me, search me, but kindly act in due form and don’t 
play with me! Don’t dare!” 

“Don’t worry about the form,” Porfiry interrupted with the 
same sly smile, as it were, gloating with enjoyment over 


Raskolnikov. “I invited you to see me quite in a friendly 

“I don’t want your friendship and I spit on it! Do you 
hear? And, here, I take my cap and go. What will you say 
now if you mean to arrest me?” 

He took up his cap and went to the door. 

“And won’t you see my little surprise?’ chuckled Porfiry, 
again taking him by the arm and stopping him at the door. 

He seemed to become more playful and good-humoured 
which maddened Raskolnikov. 

“What surprise?” he asked, standing still and looking at 
Porfiry in alarm. 

“My little surprise, it’s sitting there behind the door, 
he-he-he! (He pointed to the locked door.) I locked him 
in that he should not escape.” 

“What is it? Where? What?.. .” 

Raskolnikov walked to the door and would have opened 
it, but it was locked. 

“Tt’s locked, here is the key!” 

And he brought a key out of his pocket. 

“You are lying,’ roared Raskolnikov without restraint, 
“you lie, you damned punchinello!” and he rushed at Porfiry 
who retreated to the other door, not at all alarmed. 

“I understand it all! You are lying and mocking so that 
I may betray myself to you... .” 

“Why, you could not betray yourself any further, my dear 
Rodion Romanovitch. You are in a passion. Don’t shout, 
I shall call the clerks.” 

“You are lying! Call the clerks! You knew I was ill and 
tried to work me into a frenzy to make me betray myself, 
that was your object! Produce your facts! I understand 
it all. You’ve no evidence, you have only wretched rubbishy 
suspicions like Zametov’s! You knew my character, you 
wanted to drive me to fury and then to knock me down with 
priests and deputies. ... Are you waiting for them? eh! 
What are you waiting for? Where are they? Produce 
them ?” 

“Why deputies, my good man? What things people will 
imagine! And to do so would not be acting in form as you 
say, you don’t know the business, my dear fellow... And 


there’s no escaping form, as you see.” Porfiry muttered, 
listening at the door through which a noise could be heard. 

“Ah, they’re coming,” cried Raskolnikov. ‘“You’ve sent 
for them! You expected them! Well, produce them all: 
your deputies, your witnesses, what you like!...I am 
ready !” 

But at this moment a strange incident occurred, something 
so unexpected that neither Raskolnikov nor Porfiry Petro- 
vitch could have looked for such a conclusion to their in- 


HEN he remembered the scene afterwards, this is 
how Raskolnikov saw it. 

The noise behind the door increased, and sud- 
denly the door was opened a little. 

“What is it?’ cried Porfiry Petrovitch, annoyed. “Why, 
I gave orders .. .” 

For an instant there was no answer, but it was evident 
that there were several persons at the door, and that they 
were apparently pushing somebody back. 

“What is it?” Porfiry Petrovitch repeated, uneasily. 

“The prisoner Nikolay has been brought,’ some one an- 

“He is not wanted! Take him away! Let him wait! 
What’s he doing here? How irregular!” cried Porfiry, rush- 
ing to the door. 

“But he...” began the same voice, and suddenly ceased. 

Two seconds, not more, were spent in actual struggle, then 
some one gave a violent shove, and then a man, very pale, 
strode into the room. 

This man’s appearance was at first sight very strange. He 
stared straight before him, as though seeing nothing. There 
was a determined gleam in his eyes; at the same time 
there was a deathly pallor in his face, as though he were 
being led to the scaffold, His white lips were faintly 

He was dressed like a workman and was of medium height, 
very young, slim, his hair cut in a round crop, with thin spare 
features. The man whom he had thrust back followed him 
into the room and succeeded in seizing him by the shoulder; 
he was a warder; but Nikolay pulled his arm away. 

Several persons crowded inquisitively into the doorway. 
Some of them tried to get in. All this took place almost 

“Go away, it’s too soon! Wait till you are sent for! .. 



Why have you brought him too soon?” Porfiry Petrovitch 
muttered, extremely annoyed, and as it were thrown out of 
his reckoning. 

But Nikolay suddenly knelt down. 

“What’s the matter?” cried Porfiry, surprised. 

“I am guilty! Mine is the sin! I am the murderer,” 
Nikolay articulated suddenly, rather breathless, but speaking 
fairly loudly. 

For ten seconds there was silence as though all had been 
struck dumb; even the warder stepped back, mechanically 
retreated to the door, and stood immovable. 

“What is it?” cried Porfiry Petrovitch, recovering from his 

momentary stupefaction. A 
“I... am the murderer,” repeated Nikolay, after a brief 

“What... you... what...whom did you kill?” 
Porfiry Petrovitch was obviously bewildered. 

Nikolay again was silent for a moment. 

“Alyona Ivanovna and her sister Lizaveta Ivanovna,I ... 
killed . . . with an axe. Darkness came over me,” he added 
suddenly, and was again silent. 

He still remained on his knees. Porfiry Petrovitch stood 
for some moments as though meditating, but suddenly roused 
himself and waved back the uninvited spectators. They 
instantly vanished and closed the door. Then he looked 
towards Raskolnikov, who was standing in the corner, staring 
wildly at Nikolay and moved towards him, but stopped short, 
looked from Nikolay to Raskolnikov and then again at 
Nikolay, and seeming unable to restrain himself darted at 
the latter. 

“You’re in too great a hurry,” he shouted at him, almost 
angrily. “I didn’t ask you what came over you... Speak, 
did you kill them?” 

“I am the murderer. . . . I want to give evidence,” Nikolay 

“Ach! What did you kill them with?’ 

“An axe. I had it ready.” 

“Ach, he is in a hurry! Alone?” 

Nikolay did not understand the question. 

“Did you do it alone?” 


“Yes, alone. And Mitka is not guilty and had no share 
in it.” 

“Don’t be in a hurry about Mitka! A-ach! How was it 
you ran downstairs like that at the time? The porters met 
you both !” 

“It was to put them off the scent... . I ran after Mitka,” 
Nikolay replied hurriedly, as though he had prepared the 

“IT knew it!” cried Porfiry, with vexation. “It’s not his 
own tale he is telling,’ he muttered as though to himself, and 
suddenly his eyes rested on Raskolnikov again. 

He was apparently so taken up with Nikolay that for a 
moment he had forgotten Raskolnikov. He was a little 
taken aback, 

“My dear Rodion Romanovitch, excuse me!” he flew up 
to him, “this won’t do; I’m afraid you must go... it’s 
no good your staying ...I will... you see, what a sur- 
prise! . . . Good-bye!” 

And taking him by the arm, he showed him to the 

“I suppose you didn’t expect it?” said Raskolnikov who, 
though he had not fully grasped the situation, had regained 
his courage. 

“You did not expect it either, my friend. See how your 
hand is trembling! He-he!” 

“You’re trembling, too, Porfiry Petrovitch !” 

“Yes, Iam; I didn’t expect it.” 

“They were already at the door; Porfiry was impatient for 
Raskolnikov to be gone. 

“And your little surprise, aren’t you going to show it to 
me?” Raskolnikov said, sarcastically. 

“Why, his teeth are chattering as he asks, he-he! You 
are an ironical person! Come, till we meet!’ 

“I believe we can say good-bye!” 

“That’s in God’s hands,’ muttered Porfiry, with an un- 
natural smile. 

As he walked through the office, Raskolnikov noticed that 
many people were looking at him. Among them he saw the 
two porters from the house, whom he had invited that night 
to the police-station. They stood there waiting. But he was 


no sooner on the stairs than he heard the voice of Porfiry 
Petrovitch behind him. Turning round, he saw the latter 
running after him, out of breath. 

“One word, Rodion Romanovitch; as to all the rest, it’s 
in God’s hands, but as a matter of form there are some ques- 
tions I shall have to ask you... so we shall meet again, 
shan’t we?” 

And Porfiry stood still, facing him with a smile. 

“Shan’t we?” he added again. 

He seemed to want to say something more, but could not 
speak out. 

“You must forgive me, Porfiry Petrovitch, for what has 
just passed ... I lost my temper,” began Raskolnikov, who 
had so far regained his courage that he felt irresistibly in- 
clizied to display his coolness. 

“Don’t mention it, don’t mention it,” Porfiry replied, almost 
gleefully. “I myself, too ...I have a wicked temper, I 
admit it! But we shall meet again. If it’s God’s will, we 
may see a great deal of one another.” 

“And will get to know each other through and through?” 
added Raskolnikov. 

“Yes; know each other through and through,” assented 
Porfiry Petrovitch, and he screwed up his eyes, looking 
earnestly at Raskolnikov. “Now you're going to a birthday 
party ?” 

“To a funeral.” 

“Of course, the funeral! Take care of yourself, and get 

“T don’t know what to wish you,” said Raskolnikov, who 
had begun to descend the stairs, but looked back again. “I 
should like to wish you success, but your office is such a 
comical one.” 

“Why comical?’ Porfiry Petrovitch had turned to go, but 
he seemed to prick up his ears at this. 

“Why, how you must have been torturing and harassing 
that poor Nikolay psychologically, after your fashion, till he 
confessed! You must have been at him day and night, prov- 
ing to him that he was the murderer, and now that he has 
confessed, you'll begin vivisecting him again. ‘You are 
lying,’ you'll say. ‘You are not the murderer! You can’t be! 



It’s not your own tale you are telling!’ You must admit it’s 
a comical business !” 

“He-he-he! You noticed then that I said to Nikolay just 
now that it was not his own tale he was telling?” 

“How could I help noticing it!” 

“He-he! You are quick-witted. You notice everything! 
You’ve really a playful mind! And you always fasten on the 
comic side ... he-he! They say that was the marked char- 
acteristic of Gogol, among the writers.” 

“Ves, of Gogol.” 

“Ves, of Gogol. . . . I shall look forward to meeting you.” 

“So shall I.” 

Raskolnikov walked straight home. He was so muddled 
and bewildered that on getting honie he sat for a quarter of 
an hour on the sofa, trying to collect his thoughts. He did 
not attempt to think about Nikolay; he was stupefied; he 
felt that his confession was something inexplicable, amazing 
—something beyond his understanding. But Nikolay’s con- 
fession was an actual fact. The consequences of this fact 
were clear to him at once, its falsehood could not fail to be 
discovered, and then they would be after him again. Till 
then, at least, he was free and must do something for himself, 
for the danger was imminent. 

But how imminent? His position gradually became clear 
to him. Remembering, sketchily, the main outlines of his 
recent scene with Porfiry, he could not help shuddering again 
with horror. Of course, he did not yet know all Porfiry’s 
aims, he could not see into all his calculations. But he had 
already partly shown his hand, and no one knew better than 
Raskolnikov how terribe Porfiry’s “lead” had been for him. 
A little more and he might have given himself away com- 
. pletely, circumstantially. Knowing his nervous temperament 
and from the first glance seeing through him, Porfiry, though 
playing a bold game, was bound to win. There’s no denying 
that Raskolnikov had compromised himself seriously, but no 
facts had come to light as yet; there was nothing positive. 
But was he taking a true view of the position? Wasn’t he 
mistaken? What had Porfiry been trying to get at? Had he 
really some surprise prepared for him? And what was it? 
Had he really been expecting something or not? How 



would they have parted if it had not been for the unexpected 
appearance of Nikolay? 

Porfiry had shown almost all his cards—of course, he had 
risked something in showing them—and if he had really 
had anything up his sleeve (Raskolnikov reflected), he would 
have shown that, too. What was that “surprise’? Was it a 
joke? Had it meant anything? Could it have concealed 
anything like a fact, a piece of positive evidence? His yes- 
terday’s visitor? What had become of him? Where was he 
to-day? If Porfiry really had any evidence, it must be con- 
nected with him. ..., 

He sat on the sofa with his elbows on his knees and his 
face hidden in his hands. He was still shivering nervously. 
At last he got up, took his cap, thought a minute, and went to 
the door. 

He had a sort of presentiment that for to-day, at least, he 
might consider himself out of danger. He had a sudden sense 
almost of joy; he wanted to make haste to Katerina Iva- 
novna’s. He would be too late for the funeral, of course, but 
he would be in time for the memorial dinner, and there at 
once he would see Sonia. 

He stood still, thought a moment, and a suffering smile 
came for a moment on to his lips, 

“To-day! To-day,” he repeated to himself. “Yes, to-day! 
- So it must be... .” 

But as he was about to open the door, it began opening of 
itself. He started and moved back. The door opened gently 
and slowly, and there suddenly appeared a figure—yester- 
day’s visitor from underground. 

The man stood in the doorway, looked at Raskolnikov with- 
out speaking, and took a step forward into the room. He 
was exactly the same as yesterday; the same figure, the same 
dress, but there was a great change in his face; he looked 
dejected and sighed deeply. If he had only put his hand up 
to his cheek and leaned his head on one side he would have 
looked exactly like a peasant woman. 

“What do you want?’ asked Raskolnikov, numb with 

The man was still silent, but suddenly he bowed down 
almost to the ground, touching it with his finger. 


“What is it?” cried Raskolnikov. 

“T have sinned,” the man articulated softly. 

“How aa 

“By evil thoughts.” 

They looked at one another. 

“IT was vexed. When you came, perhaps in drink, and 
bade the porters go to the police-station and asked about the 
blood, I was vexed that they let you go and took you for 
drunken. I was so vexed that I lost my sleep. And remem- 
bering the address we came here yesterday and asked for 
ig. 5 ot 

“Who came?” Raskolnikov interrupted, instantly beginning 
to recollect. 

“T did, I’ve wronged you.” 

“Then you came from that house?” 

“I was standing at the gate ‘with them... don’t you 
remember? We have carried on our trade in that house for 
years past. We cure and prepare hides, we take work home 
. ». most of all I was vexed... .” 

And the whole scene of the day before yesterday in the 
gateway came clearly before Raskolnikov’s mind; he recol- 
lected that there had been several people there besides the 
porters, women among them. He remembered one voice had 
suggested taking him straight to the police-station. He could 
not recall the face of the speaker, and even now he did not 
recognise it, but he remembered that he had turned round 
and made him some answer. ... 

So this was the solution of yesterday’s horror. The most 
awful thought was that he had been actually almost lost, had 
almost done for himself on account of such a trivial circum- 
stance. So this man could tell nothing except his asking 
about the flat and the bloodstains. So Porfiry, too, had noth- 
ing but what delirium, no facts but this psychology which cuts 
both ways, nothing positive. So if no more facts come to 
light (and they must not, they must not!) then... then 
what can they do to him? How can they convict him, even 
if they arrest him? And Porfiry then had only just heard 
about the flat and had not known about it before. 

“Was it you who told Porfiry ... that I’d been there?” 
he cried, struck by a sudden idea. 


“What Porfiry ?” 

“The head of the detective department ?” 

“Yes. The porters did not go there, but I went.” 

“To-day ?” 

“T got there two minutes before you. And I heard, I 
heard it all, how he worried you.” 

“Where? What? When?” 

“Why, in the next room. I was sitting there all the time.” 

“What? Why then, you were the surprise? But how 
could it happen? Upon my word!” 

“T saw that the porters did not want to do what I said,” 
began the man; “for it’s too late, said they, and maybe he’ll 
be angry that we did not come at the time. I was vexed afid 
I lost my sleep, and I began making inquiries. And finding 
out yesterday where to go, I went to-day. The first time 
I went he wasn’t there, when I came an hour later he couldn’t 
see me. I went the third time, and they showed me in 
I informed him of everything, just as it happened, and he 
began skipping about the room and punching himself on the 
chest. ‘What do you scoundrels mean by it? If I’d known 
about it I should have arrested him!’ Then he ran out, called 
somebody and began talking to him in the corner, then he 
turned to me, scolding and questioning me. He scolded me 
a great deal; and I told him everything, and I told him that 
‘you didn’t dare to say a word in answer to me yesterday and 
that you didn’t recognise me. And he fell to running about 
again and kept hitting “himself on the chest, and getting 
angry and running about, and when you were announced he 
told me to go into the next room, ‘sit there a bit,’ he said. 
‘Don’t move, whatever you may hear.’ And he set a chair 
there for me and locked me in. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘I may 
call you.’ And when Nikolay’d been brought he let me out as 
soon as you were gone. ‘I shall send for you again and 
question you,’ he said.” 

“And did he question Nikolay while you were there?” 

“He got rid of me as he did of you, before he spoke to 

The man stood still, and again suddenly bowed down, 
touching the ground with his finger. 

“Forgive me for my evil thoughts, and my slander.” 


“May God forgive you,” answered Raskolnikov. 

And as he said this, the man bowed down again, but not to 
the ground, turned slowly and went out of the room. 

“Tt all cuts both ways, now it all cuts both ways,” repeated 
Raskolnikov, and he went out more confident than ever. 

“Now we'll make a fight for it,’ he said, with a malicious 
smile, as he went down the stairs. His malice was aimed 
at himself; with shame and contempt he recollected his 



Dounia and her mother brought sobering influences 

to bear on Pyotr Petrovitch. Intensely unpleasant as 
it was, he was forced little by little to accept as a fact beyond 
recall what had seemed to him only the day before fantastic 
and incredible. The black snake of wounded vanity had been 
gnawing at his heart all night. When he got out of bed, 
Pyotr Petrovitch immediately looked in the looking glass. 
He was afraid that he had jaundice. However his health 
seemed unimpaired so far, and looking at his noble, clear- 
skinned countenance which had grown fattish of late, Pyotr 
Petrovitch for an instant was positively comforted in the 
conviction that he would find another bride and, perhaps, 
even a better one. But coming back to the sense of his 
_ present position, he turned aside and spat vigorously, which 
excited a sarcastic smile in Andrey Semyonovitch Lebeziatni- 
kov, the young friend with whom he was staying. That smile 
Pyotr Petrovitch noticed, and at once set it down against his 
young friend’s account. He had set down a good many 
points against him of late. His anger was redoubled when 
he reflected that he ought not to have told Andrey Semyono- 
vitch about the result of yesterday’s interview. That was 
the second mistake he had made in temper, through im- 
pulsiveness and irritability. . . . Moreover, all that morning 
one unpleasantness followed another. He even found a hitch 
awaiting him in his legal case in the senate. He was particu- 
larly irritated by the owner of the flat which had been taken 
in view of his approaching marriage and was being re- 
decorated at his own expense; the owner, a rich German 
tradesman, would not entertain the idea of breaking the 


f hex morning that followed the fateful interview with 


contract which had just been signed and insisted on the 
full forfeit money, though Pyotr Petrovitch would be giving 
him back the flat practically redecorated. In the same way 
the upholsterers refused to return a single rouble of the in- 
stalment paid for the furniture purchased but not yet 
removed to the fiat. 

“Am I to get married simply for the sake of the furniture?” 
Pyotr Petrovitch ground his teeth and at the same time once 
more he had a gleam of desperate hope. “Can all that be 
really so irrevocably over? Is it no use to make another 
effort?’ The thought of Dounia sent a voluptuous pang 
through his heart. He endured anguish at that moment, and 
if it had been possible to slay Raskolnikov instantly by wish- 
ing it, Pyotr Petrovitch would promptly have uttered the 

“It was my mistake, too, not to have given them money,” 
he thought, as he returned dejectedly to Lebeziatnikov’s 
room, “and why on earth was I such a Jew? It was false 
economy! I meant to keep them without a penny so that 
they should turn to me as their providence, and look at them! 
foo! If I’d spent some fifteen hundred roubles on them for 
the trousseau and presents, on knick-knacks, dressing-cases, 
jewellery, materials, and all that sort of trash from Knopp’s 
and the English shop, my position would have been better 
and... stronger! They could not have refused me so 
easily! They are the sort of people that would feel bound 
to return money and presents if they broke it off; and they 
would find it hard to do it! And their conscience would 
prick them: how can we dismiss a man who has hitherto been 
so generous and delicate? ...H’m! I’ve made a blunder.” 

And grinding his teeth again, Pyotr Petrovitch called him- 
self a fool—but not aloud, of course. 

He returned home, twice as irritated and angry as before. 
The preparations for the funeral dinner at Katerina Iva- 
novna’s excited his curiosity as he passed. He had heard 
about it the day before; he fancied, indeed, that he had been 
invited, but absorbed in his own cares he had paid no atten- 
tion. Inquiring of Madame Lippevechsel who was busy lay- 
ing the table while Katerina Ivanovna was away at the ceme- 
tery, he heard that the entertainment was to be a great affair, 


that all the lodgers had been invited, among them some who 
had not known the dead man, that even Andrey Semyono- 
vitch Lebeziatnikov was invited in spite of his previous 
quarrel with Katerina Ivanovna, that he, Pyotr Petrovitch, 
was not only invited, but was eagerly expected as he was the 
most important of the lodgers. Amalia Ivanovna herself 
had been invited with great ceremony in spite of the recent 
unpleasantness, and so she was very busy with preparations 
and was taking a positive pleasure in them; she was more- 
over dressed up to the nines, all in new black silk, and she 
was proud of it. All this suggested an idea to Pyotr Petro- 
vitch and he went into his room, or rather Lebeziatnikov’ 
somewhat thoughtful. He had learnt that Raskolnikov was 
to be one of the guests. 

Andrey Semyonovitch had been at home all the morning. 
The attitude of Pyotr Petrovitch to this gentleman was 
strange, though perhaps natural. Pyotr Petrovitch had de- 
spised and hated him from the day he came to stay with 
him and at the same time he seemed somewhat afraid of him. 
He had not come to stay with him on his arrival in Peters- 
burg simply from parsimony, though that had been perhaps 
his chief object. He had heard of Andrey Semyonovitch, 
who had once been his ward, as a leading young progressive 
who was taking an important part in certain interesting cir- 
cles, the doings of which were a legend in the provinces. It 
had impressed Pyotr Petrovitch. These powerful omniscient 
circles who despised every one and showed every one up had 
long inspired in him a peculiar but quite vague alarm. He 
had not, of course, been able to form even an approximate 
notion of what they meant. He, like every one, had heard 
that there were, especially in Petersburg, progressives of 
some sort, nihilists and so on, and, like many people, he 
exaggerated and distorted the significance of those words to 
an absurd degree. What for many years past he had feared 
more than anything was being shown up and this was the 
chief ground for his continual uneasiness at the thought of 
transferring his business to Petersburg. He was afraid of 
this as little children are sometimes panic-stricken. Some 
years before, when he was just entering on his own career, 
he had come upon two cases in which rather important per- 


«sonages in the province, patrons of his, had been cruelly 
shown up. One instance had ended in great scandal for the 
person attacked and the other had very nearly ended in 
serious trouble. For this reason Pyotr Petrovitch intended 
to go into the subject as soon as he reached Petersburg and, 
if necessary, to anticipate contingencies by seeking the favour 
of “our younger generation.” He relied on Andrey Semyono- 
vitch for this and before his visit to Raskolnikov he had 
succeeded in picking up some current phrases. He soon 
discovered that Andrey Semyonovitch was a commonplace 
simpleton, but that by no means reassured Pyotr Petrovitch. 
Even if he had been certain that all the progressives were 
fools like him, it would not have allayed his uneasiness. All 
the doctrines, the ideas, the systems with which Andrey 
Semyonovitch pestered him had no interest for him. He had 
his own object—he simply wanted to find out at once what 
was happening here. Had these people any power or not? 
Had he anything to fear from them? Would they expose 
any enterprise of his? And what precisely was now the 
dbject of their attacks? Could he somehow make up to them 
and get round them if they really were powerful? Was 
this the thing to-do or not? Couldn’t he gain something 
through them? In fact hundreds of questions presented 

Andrey Semyonovitch was an anemic, scrofulous little 
man, with strangely flaxen mutton-chop whiskers of which 
he was very proud. He was a clerk and had almost always 
something wrong with his eyes. He was rather soft-hearted, 
but self-confident and sometimes extremely conceited in 
speech, which had an absurd effect, incongruous with his 
little figure. He was one of the lodgers most respected by 
Amalia Ivanovna, for he did not get drunk and paid regu- 
larly for his lodging. Andrey Semyonovitch really was 
rather stupid; he attached himself to the cause of progress 
and “our younger generation” from enthusiasm. He was 
one of the numerous and varied legion of dullards, of half- 
animate abortions, conceited, half-educated coxcombs, who 
attach themselves to the idea most in fashion only to vul- 
garise it and who caricature every cause they HERTS how- 
ever sincerely. 


Though Lebeziatnikov was so good-natured, he, too, was 
beginning to dislike Pyotr Petrovitch. This happened on 
both sides unconsciously. However simple Andrey Semyono- 
vitch might be, he began to see that Pyotr Petrovitch was 
duping him and secretly despising him, and that “he was not 
the right sort of man.” He had tried expounding to him 
the system of Fourier and the Darwinian theory, but of late 
Pyotr Petrovitch began to listen too sarcastically and even to 
be rude. The fact was he had begun instinctively to guess 
that Lebeziatnikov was not merely a commonplace simpleton, 
but, perhaps, a liar, too, and that he had no connections of 
any consequence even in his own circle, but had simply picked 
things up third-hand; and that very likely he did not even 
know much about his own work of propaganda, for he was 
in too great a muddle. A fine person he would be to show 
any one up!- It must be noted, by the way, that Pyotr 
Petrovitch had during those ten days eagerly accepted the 
strangest praise from Andrey Semyonovitch; he had not 
protested, for instance, when Andrey Semyonovitch belauded 
him for being ready to contribute to the establishment of 
the new “commune,” or to abstain from christening his 
future children, or to acquiesce if Dounia were to take a 
lover a month after marriage, and so on. Pyotr Petrovitch 
so enjoyed hearing his own praises that he did not disdain 
even such virtues when they were attributed to him. 

Pyotr Petrovitch had had occasion that morning to realise 
some five per cent. bonds.and new he sat down to the table 
and counted over bundles of notes. Andrey Semyonovitch 
who hardly ever had any money walked about the room pre- 
tending to himself to look at all those bank notes with indif- 
ference and even contempt. Nothing would have convinced 
Pyotr Petrovitch that Andrey Semyonovitch could really 
look on the money unmoved, and the latter, on his side, kept 
thinking bitterly that Pyotr Petrovitch was capable of enter- 
taining such an idea about him and was, perhaps, glad of 
the opportunity of teasing his young friend by reminding 
him of his inferiority and the great difference between them. 

He found him incredibly inattentive and irritable, though 
he, Andrey Semyonovitch, began enlarging on his favourite 
subject, the foundation of a new special “commune.” The 


brief remarks that dropped from Pyotr Petrovitch between 
the clicking of the beads on the reckoning frame betrayed 
unmistakable and discourteous irony. But the “humane” 
Andrey Semyonovitch ascribed Pyotr Petrovitch’s ill-humour 
to his recent breach with Dounia and he was burning with 
impatience to discourse on that theme. He had something 
progressive to say on the subject which might console his 
worthy friend and “could not fail” to promote his de- 

“There is some sort of festivity being prepared at that 
> «+ at the widow’s, isn’t there?” Pyotr Petrovitch asked 
suddenly, interrupting Andrey Semyonovitch at the most in- 
teresting passage. 

“Why, don’t you know? Why, I was telling you last night 
what I think about all such ceremonies. And she invited 
you too, I heard. You were talking to her yesterday .. .” 

“T should never have expected that beggarly fool would 
have spent on this feast all the money she got from that other 
fool, Raskolnikov. I was surprised just now as I came 
through at the preparations there, the wines! Several peo- 
ple are invited. It’s beyond everything!” continued Pyotr 
Petrovitch, who seemed to have some object in pursuing the 
conversation. “What? You say I am asked too? When 
was that? I don’t remember. But I shan’t go. Why should 
I? I only said a word to her in passing yesterday of the 
possibility of her obtaining a year’s salary as a destittte 
widow of a government clerk. I suppose she has invited me 
on that account, hasn’t she? He-he-he!” 

“T don’t intend to go either,” said Lebeziatnikov. 

“I should think not, after giving her a thrashing! You 
might well hesitate, he-he!” 

“Who thrashed? Whom?” cried Lebeziatnikov, flustered 
and blushing. 

“Why, you thrashed Katerina Ivanovna a month ago. I 
heard so yesterday that’s what your convictions 
amount to... and the woman question, too, wasn’t quite 
sound, he-he-he!” and Pyotr Petrovitch, as though com- 
forted, went back to clicking his beads. 

“It’s all slander and nonsense!” cried Lebeziatnikov, who 
was always afraid of allusions to the subject. “It was not 


like that at all, it was quite different. You’ve heard it 
wrong; it’s a libel. I was simply defending myself. She 
rushed at me first with her nails, she pulled out all my 
whiskers . . . It’s permissible for any one I should hope 
to defend Rcinikel and I never allow any one to use violence 
to me on principle, for it’s an act of despotism. What was 
I to do? I simply pushed her back.” 

“He-he-he !” Luzhin went on laughing maliciously. 

“You keep on like that because you are out of humour 
yourself. . . . But that’s nonsense and it has nothing, noth- 
ing whatever to do with the woman question! You don’t 
understand; I used to think, indeed, that if women are equal 
to men in all respects, even in strength (as is maintainéd 
now) there ought to be equality in that, too. Of course, I 
reflected afterwards that such a question ought not really to 
arise, for there ought not to be fighting, and in the future 
society fighting is unthinkable ... and that it would be a 
queer thing to seek for equality in fighting. I am not so 
stupid ... though, of course, there is fighting ... there 
won’t be later, but at present there is... confound it! 
How muddled one gets with you! It’s not on that account 
that I am not going. I am not going on principle, not to 
take part in the revolting convention of memorial dinners, 
that’s why! Though, of course, one might go to laugh at 
‘it. . .. Iam sorry there won ’t be any priests at it. I should 
coitainds go if there were.’ 

“Then you would sit down at another man’s table and 
insult it and those who invited you. Eh?” 

“Certainly not insult, but protest. I should do it with a 
good object. I might indirectly assist the cause of enlighten- 
ment and propaganda. It’s a duty of every man to work for 
enlightenment and propaganda and the more harshly, perhaps, 
the better. I might drop a seed, an idea. ... And some- 
thing might grow up from that seed. How should I be 
insulting them? They might be offended at first, but after- 
wards they’d see I’d done them a service. You know, Tere- 
byeva (who is in the community now) was blamed because 
when she left her family and . . . devoted . . . herself, she 
wrote to her father and mother that she wouldn't go on living 
conventionally and was entering on a free marriage and it 


was said that that was too harsh, that she might have spared 
them and have written more kindly. I think that’s all non- 
sense and there’s no need of softness, on the contrary, what’s 
wanted is protest. Varents had been married seven years, 
she abandoned her two children, she told her husband straight 
out in a letter: ‘I have realised that 1 cannot be happy with 
you. I can never forgive you that you have deceived me by 
concealing from me that there is another organisation of 
society by means of the communities. I have only lately 
learned it from a great-hearted man to whom I have given 
myself and with whom I am establishing a community. I 
speak plainly because I consider it dishonest to deceive you. 
Do as you think best. Do not hope to get me back, you are 
too late. I hope you will be happy.’ That’s how letters like 
that ought to be written!” 

“is that Terebyeva the one you said had made a third free 
marriage ?” 

“No, it’s only the second, really! But what if it were the 
fourth, what if it were the fifteenth, that’s all nonsense! And 
if ever I regretted the death of my father and mother, it is 
now, and I sometimes think if my parents were living what 
a protest I would have aimed at them! I would have done 
something on purpose ...I would have shown them! I 
would have astonished them! I am really sorry there is no 

“To surprise! He-he! Well, be that as you will,’ Pyotr 
Petrovitch interrupted, “but tell me this: do you know the 
dead man’s daughter, the delicate-looking little thing? It’s 
true what they say about her, isn’t it?” 

“What of it? I think, that is, it is my own personal con- 
viction, that this is the normal condition of women. Why 
not? I mean, distinguons. In our present society, it is not 
altogether normal, because it is compulsory, but in the future 
society, it will be perfectly normal, because it will be volun- 
tary. Even as it is, she was quite right: she was suffering 
and that was her asset, so to speak, her capital which she 
had a perfect right to dispose of. Of course, in the future 
society, there will be no need of assets, but her part will 
have another significance, rational and in harmony with her 
environment. As to Sofya Semyonovna personally, I regard 


her action as a vigorous protest against the organisation of 

society, and I respect her deeply for it; I rejoice indeed when | 

I look at her!” 

“I was told that you got her turned out of these lodg- | 


Lebeziatnikov was enraged. 

“That’s another slander,” he yelled. “It was not so at all! 
That was all Katerina Ivanovna’s invention, for she did not 
understand! And I never made love to Sofya Semyonovna! 

I was simply developing her, entirely disinterestedly, trying. 

to rouse her to protest.... All I wanted was her protest 
and Sofya Semyonovna could not have remained here any- 
way !” / 
~ “Have you asked her to join your community ?” 

“You keep on laughing and very inappropriately, allow me 
to tell you. You don’t understand! There is no such role 
in a community. The community is established that there 
should be no such roles. In a community, such a role is 
essentially transformed and what is stupid here is sensible 
there, what, under present conditions, is unnatural becomes 
perfectly natural in the community. It all depends on the 
environment. It’s all the environment and man himself is 
nothing. And I am on good terms with Sofya Semyonovna 
to this day, which is a proof that she never regarded me as 
having wronged her. I am trying now to attract her to the 
community, but on quite, quite a different footing. What are 
you laughing at? We are trying to establish a community of 
our own, a special one, on a broader basis. We have gone 
further in our convictions. We reject more! And mean- 
while I’m still developing Sofya Semyonovna. She has a 
beautiful, beautiful character !” 

“And you take advantage of her fine character, eh? He- 

“No, no! Oh, no! On the contrary.” 

“Oh, the contrary! He-he-he! A queer thing to say!” 

“Believe me! Why should I disguise it? In fact, I feel 
it strange myself how timid, chaste and modest she is with 

“And you, of course, are developing her . . . he-he! trying 
to prove to her that all that modesty is nonsense?” 



“Not at all, not at all! How coarsely, how stupidly— 
excuse me saying so—you misunderstand the word develop- 
ment! Good heavens, how... crude you still are! We 
are striving for the freedom of women and you have only 
one idea in your head... . Setting aside the general ques- 
tion of chastity and feminine modesty as useless in them- 
selves and indeed prejudices, I fully accept her chastity with 
me, because that’s for her to decide. Of course if she were 
to tell me herself that she wanted me, I should think myself 
very lucky, because I like the girl very mttch; but as it is, 
no one has ever treated her more courteously than I, with 
more respect for her dignity . . . I wait in hopes, that’s all!” 

“You had much better make her a present of something. 
I bet you never thought of that.” 

“You don’t understand, as I’ve told you already! Of 
course, she is in such a position, but it’s another question. 
Quite another question! You simply despise her. Seeing a 
fact which you mistakenly consider deserving of contempt, 
you reftse to take a humane view of a fellow creature. You 
don’t know what a character she is! I am only sorry that of 
late she has quite given up reading and borrowing books. I 
used to lend them to her. I am sorry, too, that with all the 
energy and resolution in protesting—which she has already 
shown once—she has little self-reliance, little, so to say, 
independence, so as to break free from certain prejudices 
and certain foolish ideas. Yet she thoroughly understands 
some questions, for instance about kissing of hands, that is, 
that it’s an insult to a woman for a man to kiss her hand, 
because it’s a sign of inequality. We had a debate about it 
and I described it to her. She listened attentively to an 
account of the workmen’s associations in France, too. Now 
I am explaining the question of coming into the room in the 
future society.” 

“And what’s that, pray?” 

“We had a debate lately on the question: Has a member of 
the community the right to enter another member’s room, 
whether man or woman at any time . . . and we decided that 
he has!” 

“It might be at an inconvenient moment, he-he!” 

Lebeziatnikov was really angry. 


“You are always thinking of something unpleasant,” he | 
cried with aversion. ‘‘Tfoo! How vexed I am that when I | 
was expounding our system, I referred prematurely to the | 

question of personal privacy! It’s always a stumbling-block 

to people like you, they turn it into ridicule before they | 

understand it. And how proud they are of it, too! Tfoo! 
I’ve often maintained that that question should not be ap- 
proached by a novice till he has a firm faith in the system. 
And tell me, please, what do you find so shameful even in 
cesspools? I should be the first to be ready to clean out any 
cesspool you like. And it’s not a question of self-sacrifice, 
it’s simply work, honourable, useful work which is as good 
as any other and much better than the work of a Raphael’ 
and a Pushkin, because it is more useful.” 

“And more honourable, more honourable, he-he-he !” 

“What do you mean by ‘more honourable’? I don’t 
understand such expressions to describe human activity. 
‘More honourable, ‘nobler’—all those are old-fashioned 
prejudices which I reject. Everything which is of use to 
mankind is honourable. I only understand one word: useful! 
You can snigger as much as you like, but that’s so!” 

Pyotr Petrovitch laughed heartily. He had finished count- 
ing the money and was putting it away. But some of the 
notes he left on the table. The “cesspool question” had 
already been a subject of dispute between them. What was 
absurd was that it made Lebeziatnikov really angry, while 
it amused Luzhin and at that moment he particularly wanted 
to anger his young friend. 

“It’s your ill-luck yesterday that makes you so ill-humoured 
and annoying,” blurted out Lebeziatnikov, who in spite of 
his “independence” and his “protests” did not venture to 
oppose Pyotr Petrovitch and still behaved to him with some 
of the respect habitual in earlier years. 

“You'd better tell me this,” Pyotr Petrovitch interrupted 
with haughty displeasure, “can you... or rather are you 
really friendly enough with that young person to ask her to 
step in here for a minute? I think they’ve all come back 
from the cemetery ...I hear the sound of steps... I 
want to see her, that young person.” 

“What for?’ Lebeziatnikov asked with surprise. 





“Oh, I want to. I am leaving here to-day or to-morrow 
and therefore I wanted to speak to her about . . . However, 
you may be present during the interview. It’s better you 
should be, indeed. For there’s no knowing what you might 

“T shan’t imagine anything. I only asked and, if you’ve 
anything to say to her, nothing is easier than to call her in. 
I’ll go directly and you may be sure I won't be in your way.” 

Five minutes later Lebeziatnikov came in with Sonia. She 
came in very much surprised and overcome with shyness as 
usual. She was always shy in such circumstances and was 
always afraid of new people, she had been as a child and was 
even more so now. ... Pyotr Petrovitch met her “politely 
and affably,’ but with a certain shade of bantering famili- 
arity which in his opinion was suitable for a man of his 
respectability and weight in dealing with a creature so young 
and so interesting as she. He hastened to “reassure” her and 
made her sit down facing him at the table. Sonia sat down, 
looked about her—at Lebeziatnikov, at the notes lying on the 
table and then again at Pyotr Petrovitch and her eyes re- 
mained riveted on him. Lebeziatnikov was moving to the 
door. Pyotr Petrovitch signed to Sonia to remain seated 
and stopped Lebeziatnikov. 

“Is Raskolnikov in there? Has he come?” he asked him in 
a whisper. 

“Raskolnikov? Yes. Why? Yes, he is there. I saw him 
just come in... Why?” 

“Well, I particularly beg you to remain here with us and 
not to leave me alone with this .. . young woman. I only 
want a few words with her, but God knows what they may 
make of it. I shouldn’t like Raskolnikov to repeat anything. 
... You understand what I mean?” 

“T understand!” Lebeziatnikov saw the point. “Yes, you 
are right. . . . Of course, I am convinced personally that you 
have no reason to be uneasy, but .. . still, you are right. 
Certainly I'll stay. Ill stand here at the window and not be 
in your way ... I think you are right ...” 

Pyotr Petrovitch returned to the sofa, sat down opposite 
Sonia, looked attentively at her and assumed an extremely 
dignified, even severe expression, as much as to say, “don’t 


you make any mistake, madam.” Sonia was overwhelmed 
with embarrassment. 

“In the first place, Sofya Semyonovna, will you make my 
excuses to your respected mamma. ... That’s right, isn’t 
it? Katerina Ivanovna stands in the place of a mother 
to your” Pyotr Petrovitch began with great dignity, though 

It was evident that his intentions were friendly. 

“Quite so, yes; the place of a mother,” Sonia answered, 
timidly and hurriedly. 

“Then you will make my apologies to her? Through in- 
evitable circumstances I am forced to be absent and shall not 
be at the dinner in spite of your mamma’s kind invitation.” 

h¥ed os.0 PU tell her. iz ss at once” 

And Sonia hastily jumped up from her seat. 

“Wait, that’s not all,’ Pyotr Petrovitch detained her, smil- 
ing at het simplicity and ignorance of good manners, “and 
you know me little, my dear Sofya Semyonovna, if you sup- 
pose I would have ventured to trouble a person like you for 
a matter of so little consequence affecting myself only. I 
have another object.” 

Sonia sat down hurriedly. Her eyes rested again for an 
instant on the grey and rainbow-coloured notes that re- 
mained on the table, but she quickly looked away and fixed 
her eyes on Pyotr Petrovitch. She felt it horribly indecorous, 
especially for her, to look at another person’s money. She 
stared at the gold eyeglass which Pyotr Petrovitch held in 
his left hand and at the massive and extremely handsotne 
ring with a yellow stone on his middle finger. But suddenly 
she looked away and, not knowing where to turn, ended by 
staring Pyotr Petrovitch again straight in the face. After a 
pause of still greater dignity he continued. 

“I chanced yesterday in passing to exchange a couple of 
words with Katerina Ivanovna, poor woman. That was suffi- 
cient to enable me to ascertain that she is in a position— 
preternatural, if one may so express it.” 

“Yes ... preternatural .. .” Sonia hurriedly assented. 

“Or it would be simpler and more comprehensible to say, 

“Yes, simpler and more comprehensive . . . yes, ill.” 



“Quite so. So then from a feeling of humanity and so to 
speak compassion, I should be glad to be of service to her 
in any way, foreseeing her unfortunate position. I believe 
the whole of this poverty-stricken family depends now en- 
tirely on your” 

“Allow me to ask,” Sonia rose to her feet, “did you say 
something to her yesterday of the possibility of a pension? 
Because she told me you had undertaken to get her one. 
Was that true?” 

“Not in the slightest, and indeed it’s an absurdity! I 
merely hinted at her obtaining temporary assistance as the 
widow of an official who had died in the service—if only she 
has patronage ... but apparently your late parent had not 
served his full term and had not indeed been in the service 
at all of late. In fact, if there could be any hope, it would be 
very ephemeral, because there would be no claim for assist- 
ance in that case, far from it... . And she is dreaming of a 
pension already, he-he-he!... A go-ahead lady!” 

“Ves, she is. For she is credulous and good-hearted, and 
She believes everything from the goodness of her heart and 

.. and... and she is like that... You must excuse 
her,” said Sonia, and again she got up to go. 

“But you haven’t heard what I have to say.” 

“No, I haven’t heard,” muttered Sonia. 

“Then sit down.” She was terribly confused; she sat down 
again a third time. 

“Seeing her position with her unfortunate little ones, I 
should be glad, as I have said before, so far as lies in my 
power, to be of service, that is, so far as is in my power, not 
more. One might for instance get up a subscription for her, 
or a lottery, something of the sort, such as is always arranged 
in such cases by friends or even outsiders desirous of assist- 
ing people. It was of that I intended to speak to you; it 
might be done.” 

“Yes, yes .. . God will repay you for it,” faltered Sonia, 
gazing intently at Pyotr Petrovitch. 

“It might be, but we will talk of it later. We might begin 
it to-day, we will talk it over this evening and lay the founda- 
tion so to speak. Come to me at seven o'clock. Mr. Lebe- 
ziatnikov, I hope, will assist us. But there is one circum 


stance of which I ought to warn you beforehand and for 
which I venture to trouble you, Sofya Semyonovna, to come 
here. In my opinion money cannot be, indeed it’s unsafe to 
put it into Katerina Ivanovna’s own hands. The dinner to- 
day is a proof of that. Though she has not, so to speak, a 
crust of bread for to-morrow and ... well, boots or shoes, 
or anything; she has bought to-day Jamaica rum, and even, I 
believe, Madeira and... and coffee. I saw it as I passed 
through. To-morrow it will all fall upon you again, they 
won’t have a crust of bread. It’s absurd, really, and so, to 
my thinking, a subscription ought to be raised so that the 
unhappy widow should not know of the money, but only you, 
for instance. Am [I right?” y 

“T don’t know ... this is only to-day, once in her life 
-.- She was so anxious to do honour, to celebrate the 
memory. ... And she is very sensible . . . but just as you 
think and I shall be very, very ... they will all be ... and 
God will reward ... and the orphans... .” 

Sonia burst into tears. 

“Very well, then, keep it in mind; and now will you accept 

for the benefit of your relation the small sum that I am able 
to spare, from me personally. I am very anxious that my 
name should not be mentioned in connection with it. Here 
. . . having so to speak anxieties of my own, I cannot do 
- And Pyotr Petrovitch held out to Sonia a ten rouble note 
carefully unfolded. Sonia took it, flushed crimson, jumped 
up, muttered something and began taking leave. Pyotr Petro- 
vitch accompanied her ceremoniously to the door. She got 
out of the room at last agitated and distressed, and returned 
to Katerina Ivanovna, overwhelmed with confusion. 

All this time Lebeziatnikov had stood at the window or 
walked about the room, anxious not to interrupt the con- 
versation; when Sonia had gone he walked up to Pyotr 
Petrovitch and solemnly held out his hand. 

“T heard and saw everything,” he said, laying stress on the 
last verb. “That is honourable, I mean to say, it’s humane! 
You wanted to avoid gratitude, I saw! And although I can- 
not, I confess, in principle sympathise with private charity, 
for it not only fails to eradicate the evil but even promotes 


it, yet I must admit that I saw your action with pleasure— 
yes, yes, I like it.” 

“That’s all nonsense,’ muttered Pyotr Petrovitch, some- 
what disconcerted, looking carefully at Lebeziatnikoy. 

“No, it’s not nonsense! A man who has suffered distress 
and annoyance as you did yesterday and who yet can sym- 
pathise with the misery of others, such a man... even 
though he is making a social mistake—is still deserving of 
respect! I did not expect it indeed of you, Pyotr Petrovitch, 
especially as according to your ideas . . . oh, what a draw- 
back your ideas are to you! How distressed you are for 
instance by your ill luck yesterday,” cried the simple-hearted 
Lebeziatnikov, who felt a return of affection for Pyotr 
Petrovitch. “And what do you want with marriage, with 
legal marriage, my dear, noble Pyotr Petrovitch? Why do 
you cling to this legality of marriage? Well, you may beat 
me if you like, but I am glad, positively glad it hasn’t come 
off, that you are free, that you are not quite lost for hu- 
manity. ... You see, I’ve spoken my mind!” 

“Because I don’t want in your free marriage to be made a 
fool of and to bring up another man’s children, that’s why I 
want legal marriage,” Luzhin replied in order to make some 

He seemed preoccupied by something. 

“Children? You referred to children,” Lebeziatnikov 
started off like a warhorse at the trumpet call. “Children are 
a social question and a question of first importance, I agree; 
but the question of children has another solution. Some 
refuse to have children altogether, because they suggest the 
institution of the family. We'll speak of children later, but 
now as to the question of honour, I confess that’s my weak 
point. That horrid, military, Pushkin expression is unthink- 
able in the dictionary of the future. What does it mean 
indeed? It’s nonsense, there will be no deception in a free 
marriage! That is only the natural consequence of a legal 
marriage, so to say, its corrective, a protest. So that indeed 
it’s not humiliating ...and if I ever, to suppose an ab- 
surdity, were to be legally married, I should be positively 
glad of it. I should say to my wife: ‘My dear, hitherto I 
have loved you, now I respect you, for you’ve shown you can 



protest!’ You laugh! That’s because you are incapable of 
getting away from prejudices. Confound it all! I under- 
stand now where the unpleasantness is of being deceived in a 
legal marriage, but it’s simply a despicable consequence of a 
despieable position in which both are humiliated. When the 
deception is open, as in a free marriage, then it does not 
exist, it’s unthinkable. Your wife will only prove how she 
respects you by consideting you incapable of opposing her 
happiness and avenging yourself on her for her new hus- 
band. Damn it all! I sometimes dream if I were to be mar- 
ried, pfoo! I mean if I were to marry, legally or not, it’s 
just the same, J should present my wife with a lover if she 
had not found one for herself. ‘My dear,’ I should say, ‘TF 
love you, but even more than that I desire you to respect mé. 
See!’ Am I not right?” 

Pyotr Petrovitch sniggered as he listened, but without 
much merriment. He hardly heard it indeed. He was pre- 
occtipied with something else and even Lebeziatnikov at last 
noticed it. Pyotr Petrovitch seemed excited and rubbed his 
hands. Leébeziatnikov remembered all this and reflected upon 
it afterwards. 


originated the idea of that senseless dinner in Katerina 
Ivanovna’s disordered brain. Nearly ten of the twenty . 
roubles, given by Raskolnikov for Marmeladov’s funeral, 
were wasted upon it. Possibly Katerina Ivanovna felt 
obliged to honour the memory of the deceased “suitably,” 
that all the lodgers, and still more Amalia Ivanovna, might 
know “that he was in no way their inferior, and perhaps very 
much their superior,” and that no one had the right “to turn 
up his nose at him.” Perhaps the chief element was that 
peculiar “poor man’s pride,” which compels many poor people 
to spend their last savings on some traditional social cere- 
mony, simply in order to do “like other people,” and not to 
“be looked down upon.” It is very probable, too, that 
Katerina Ivanovna longed on this occasion, at the moment 
when she seemed to be abandoned by every one, to show 
those “wretched contemptible lodgers” that she knew “how to 
do things, how to entertain” and that she had been brought 
up “in a genteel, she might almost say aristocratic colonel’s 
family” and had not been meant for sweeping floors and 
washing the children’s rags at night. Even the poorest and 
most broken-spirited people are sometimes liable to these 
paroxysms of pride and vanity which take the form of an 
irresistible nervous craving. And Katerina Ivanovna was 
not broken-spirited; she might have been killed by circum- 
stance, but her spirit could not have been broken, that is, 
she could not have been intimidated, her will could not be 
crushed. Moreover, Sonia had said with good reason that 
her mind was unhinged. She could not be said to be insane, 
but for a year past she had been so harassed that her mind 
might well be overstrained. The later stages of consumption 
are apt, doctors tell us, to affect the intellect. 
There was no great variety of wines, nor was there 
Madeira; but wine there was. There was vodka, rum and 

if would be difficult to explain exactly what could have 


Lisbon wine, all of the poorest quality but in sufficient 
quantity. Besides the traditional rice and honey, there were 
three or four dishes, one of which consisted of pancakes, all 
prepared in Amalia Ivanovna’s kitchen. Two samovars were 
boiling, that tea and punch might be offered after dinner. 
Katerina Ivanovna had herself seen to purchasing the pro- 
visions, with the help of one of the lodgers, an unfortunate 
little Pole who had somehow been stranded at Madame 
Lippevechsel’s. He promptly put himself at Katerina Iva- 
noyna’s disposal and had been all that morning and all the 
day before running about as fast as his legs could carry him, 
and very anxious that every one should be aware of it. For 
every trifle he ran to Katerina Ivanovna, even hunting her 
out at the bazaar, at every instant calling her “Pani.” She 
was heartily sick of him before the end, though she had de- 
clared at first that she cotld not have got on without this 
“serviceable and magnanimous man.” It was one of Katerina 
Ivanovna’s characteristics to paint every one she met in the 
most glowing colours. Her praises were so exaggerated as 
sometimes to be embarrassing; she would invent various 
circumstances to the credit of her new acquaintance and 
quite genuinely believe in their reality. Then all of a sudden 
she would be disillusioned and would rudely and contemptu- 
ously repulse the person she had only a few hours before 
been literally adoring. She was naturally of a gay, lively 
and peace-loving disposition, but from continual failures and 
misfortunes she had come to desire so keenly that all should 
live in peace and joy and should not dare to break the peace, 
that the slightest jar, the smallest disaster reduced her almost 
to frenzy, and she would pass in an instant from the bright- 
est hopes and fancies to cursing her fate and raving, and 
knocking her head against the wall. 

Amalia Ivanovna, too, suddenly acquired extraordinary im- 
portance in Katerina Ivanovna’s eyes and was treated by her 
with extraordinary respect, probably only because Amalia 
Ivanovna had thrown herself heart and soul into the prepara- 
tions. She had undertaken to lay the table, to provide the 
linen, crockery, &c., and to cook the dishes in her kitchen, 
and Katerina Ivanovna had left it all in her hands and gone 
herself to the cemetery. Everything had been well done. 


Even the tablecloth was nearly clean; the crockery, knives, 
forks and glasses were, of course, of all shapes and patterns, 
lent by different lodgers, but the table was properly laid at 
the time fixed, and Amalia Ivanovna, feeling she had done 
her work well, had put on a black silk dress and a cap with 
new mourning ribbons and met the returning party with 
some pride. This pride, though justifiable displeased Katerina 
Ivanovna for some reason: “as though the table could not 
have been laid except by Amalia Ivanovna!” She disliked 
the cap with new ribbons, too. “Could she be stuck up, the 
stupid German, because she was mistress of the house, and 
had consented as a favour to help her poor lodgers! Asa 
favour! Fancy that! Katerina Ivanovna’s father who had 
been a colonel and almost a governor had sometimes had the 
table set for forty persons and then any one like Amalia 
Ivanovna, or rather Ludwigovna, would not have been 
allowed into the kitchen.” 

Katerina Ivanovna, however, put off expressing her feel- 
ings for the time and contented herself with treating her 
coldly, though she decided inwardly that she would certainly 
have to put Amalia Ivanovna down and set her in her proper 
place, for goodness only knew what she was fancying herself. 
Katerina [vanovna was irritated too by the fact that hardly 
any of the lodgers invited had come to the funeral, except the 
Pole who had just managed to run into the cemetery, while 
to the memorial dinner the poorest and most insignificant of 
them had turned up, the wretched creatures, many of them 
not quite sober. The older and more respectable of them all, 
as if by common consent, stayed away. Pyotr Petrovitch 
Luzhin, for instance, who might be said to be the most re- 
spectable of all the lodgers, did not appear, though Katerina 
Ivanovna had the evening before told all the world, that is 
Amalia Ivanovna, Polenka, Sonia and the Pole, that he was 
the most generous, noble-hearted man with a large property 
and vast connections, who had been a friend of her first 
husband’s, and a guest in her father’s house, and that he had 
promised to use all his influence to secure her a considerable 
pension. It must be noted that when Katerina Ivanovna 
exalted any one’s connections and fortune, it was without 
any ulterior motive, quite disinterestedly, for the mere 


pleasure of adding to the consequence of the person praised. 
Probably “taking his cue” from Luzhin, “that contemptible 
wretch Lebeziatnikov had not turned up either. What did he 
fancy himself? He was only asked out of kindness and be- 
cause he was sharing the same room with Pyotr Petrovitch 
and was a friend of his, so that it would have been awkward 
not to invite him.” 

Among those who failed to appear were “the genteel lady 
and her old-maidish daughter,” who had only been lodgers in 
the house for the last fortnight, but had several times com- 
plained of the noise and uproar in Katerina Ivanovna’s room, 
especially when Marmeladov had come back drunk. Katerina 
Ivanovna heard this from Amalia Ivanovna who, quarreling 
with Katerina Ivanovna, and threatening to turn the whole 
family out of doors, had shouted at her that they “were not 
worth the foot” of the honourable lodgers whom they were 
disturbing. Katerina Ivanovna determined now to invite 
this lady and her daughter, “whose foot she was not worth,” 
and who had turned away haughtily when she casually met 
them, so that they might know that “she was more noble in 
her thoughts and feelings and did not harbour malice,” and 
might see that she was not accustomed to her way of living. 
She had proposed to make this clear to them at dinner with 
allusions to her late father’s governorship, and also at the 
same time to hint that it was exceedingly stupid of them to 
turn away on meeting her. The fat colonel-major (he was 
really a discharged officer of low rank) was also absent, but 
it appeared that he had been “not himself” for the last two 
days. The party consisted of the Pole, a wretched looking 
clerk with a spotty face and a greasy coat, who had not a 
word to say for himself, and smelt abominably, a deaf and 
almost blind old man who had once been in the post office and 
who had been from immemorial ages maintained by some one 
at Amalia Ivanovna’s. 

A retired clerk of the commissariat department, came, too; 
he was drunk, had a loud and most unseemly laugh and only 
fancy—was without a waistcoat! One of the visitors sat 
straight down to the table without even greeting Katerina 
Ivanovna. Finally one person having no suit appeared in his 
dressing gown, but this was too much, and the efforts of 


Amalia Ivanovna and the Pole succeeded in removing him. 
The Pole brought with him, however, two other Poles who 
did not live at Amalia Ivanovna’s and whom no one had seen 
here before. All this irritated Katerina [vanovna intensely. 
“For whom had they made all these preparations then?’ To 
make room for the visitors the children had not even been 
laid for at the table; but the two little ones were sitting on 
a bench in the furthest corner with their dinner laid on a 
box, while Polenka as a big girl had to look after them, feed 
them, and keep their noses wiped like well-bred children’s. 

Katerina Ivanovna, in fact, could hardly help meeting her 
guests with increased dignity, and even haughtiness. She 
stared at some of them with special severity, and loftily in- 
vited them to take their seats. Rushing to the conclusion that 
Amalia‘ Ivanovna must be responsible for those who were 
absent, she began treating her with extreme nonchalance, 
which the latter promptly observed and resented. Such a 
beginning was no good omen for the end. All were seated 
at last. 

Raskolnikov came in almost at the moment of their return 
from the cemetery. Katerina Ivanovna was greatly delighted 
to see him, in the first place, because he was the one “edu- 
cated visitor, and, as every one knew, was in two years to 
take a professorship in the university,” and secondly because 
he immediately and respectfully apologised for having been 
unable to be at the funeral, She positively pounced upon 
him, and made him sit on her left hand (Amalia Ivanovna 
was on her right). In spite of her continual anxiety that the 
dishes should be passed round correctly, and that every one 
should taste them, in spite of the agonising cough which 
interrupted her every minute and seemed to have grown 
worse during the last few days, she hastened to pour out in 
a half whisper to Raskolnikov all her suppressed feelings and 
her just indignation at the failure of the dinner, interspersing 
her remarks with lively and uncontrollable laughter at the 
expense of her visitors and especially of her landlady. 

“Tt’s all that cuckoo’s fault! You know whom I mean? 
Her, her!” Katerina Ivanovna nodded towards the landlady. 
“Look at her, she’s making round eyes, she feels that we are 
talking about her and can’t understand. Pfoo, the owl! Ha-» 


ha! (Cough-cough-cough.) And what does she put on that 
cap for? (Cough-cough-cough.) Have you noticed that she 
wants every one to consider that she is patronising me and 
doing me an honour by being here? I asked her like a sen- 
sible woman to invite people, especially those who knew my 
late husband, and look at the set of fools she has brought! 
The sweeps! Look at that one with the spotty face. And 
those wretched Poles, ha-ha-ha! (Cough-cough-cough. ) 
Not one of them has ever poked his nose in here, I’ve never 
set eyes on them. What have they come here for, I ask you? 
There they sit in a row. Hey, pan!” she cried suddenly to 
one of them, “have you tasted the pancakes? Take some 
more! Have some beer! Won’t you have some vodka? 
Look, he’s jumped up and is making his bows, they must be 
quite starved, poor things. Never mind, let them eat! They 
don’t make a noise, anyway, though I’m really afraid for our 
landlady’s silver spoons... Amalia Ivanovna!” she ad- 
dressed her suddenly, almost aloud, “if your spoons should 
happen to be stolen, I won’t be responsible, I warn you! Ha- 
ha-ha!” She laughed turning to Raskolnikov, and again 
nodding towards the landlady, in high glee at her sally. 
“She didn’t understand, she didn’t understand again! Look 
how she sits with her mouth open! An owl, areal owl! An 
owl in new ribbons, ha-ha-ha!” 

Here her laugh turned again to an insufferable fit of 
coughing that lasted five minutes. Drops of perspiration 
stood out on her forehead and her handkerchief was stained 
with blood. She showed Raskolnikov the blood in silence, 
and as soon as she could get her breath began whispering 
to him again with extreme animation and a hectic flush on 
her cheeks. 

“Do you know, I gave her the most delicate instructions, 
so to speak, for inviting that lady and her daughter, you 
understand of whom I am speaking? It needed the utmost 
delicacy, the greatest nicety, but she has managed things 
so that that fool, that conceited baggage, that provincial 
nonentity, simply because she is the widow of a major, and 
has come to try and get a pension and to fray out her skirts 
in the government offices, because at fifty she paints her 
face (everybody knows it) ...a creature like that did 


not think fit to come, and has not even answered the in- 
vitation, which the most ordinary good manners required! 
I can’t understand why Pyotr Petrovitch has not come? 
But where’s Sonia? Where has she gone? Ah, there she 
is at last! what is it, Sonia, where have you been? It’s odd 
that even at your father’s funeral you should be so un- 
punctual. Rodion Romanovitch, make room for her beside 
you. That’s your place, Sonia... take what you like. 
Have some of the cold entrée with jelly, that’s the best. 
They'll bring the pancakes directly. Have they given the 
children some? Polenka, have you got everything? 
(Cough-cough-cough.) That’s all right. Be a good girl, 
Lida, and Kolya don’t fidget with your feet; sit like a gentle- 
man. What are you saying, Sonia?” 

Sonia hastened to give her Pyotr Petrovitch’s apologies, 
trying to speak loud: enough for every one to hear and care- 
fully choosing the most respectful phrases which she attri- 
buted to Pyotr Petrovitch. She added that Pyotr Petro- 
vitch had particularly told her to say that, as soon as he 
possibly could, he would come immediately to discuss busi- 
ness alone with her and to consider what could be done for 
her, &c., &c. 

Sonia knew that this would comfort Katerina Ivanovna, 
would flatter her and gratify her pride. She sat down 
beside Raskolnikov; she made him a hurried bow, glancing 
curiously at him. But for the rest of the time she seemed 
to avoid looking at him or speaking to him. She seemed 
absent-minded, though she kept looking at Katerina Iva- 
novna, trying to please her. Neither she nor Katerina 
Ivanovna had been able to get mourning; Sonia was wear- 
ing dark brown, and Katerina Ivanovna had on her only 
dress, a dark striped cotton one. 

The message from Pyotr Petrovitch was very successful. 
Listening to Sonia with dignity, Katerina Ivanovna in- 
quired with equal dignity how Pyotr Petrovitch was, then 
at once whispered almost aloud to Raskolnikov that it cer- 
tainly would have been strange for a man of Pyotr Petro- 
vitch’s position and standing to find himself in such “ex- 
traordinary company,” in spite of his devotion to her family 
and his old friendship with her father. 


“That’s why I am so grateful to you, Rodion Romanovitch, 
that you have not disdained my hospitality, even in such 
surroundings,” she added almost aloud. “But I am sure 
that it was only your special affection for my poor husband 
that has made you keep your promise.” 

Then once more with pride and dignity she scanned her 
visitors, and suddenly inquired aloud across the table of - 
the deaf man: “wouldn’t he have some more meat, and had 
he been given some wine?” ‘The old man made no answer 
and for a long while could not understand what he was 
asked, though his neighbours amused themselves by poking 
and shaking him. He simply gazed about him with his 
mouth open, which only increased the general mirth. d 

“What an imbecile! Look, look! Why was he brought? 
But as to Pyotr Petrovitch, I always had confidence in him,” 
Katerina Ivanovna continued, “and, of course, he is not 
like...” with an extremely stern face she addressed 
Amalia Ivanovna so sharply and loudly that the latter was 
quite disconcerted “not like your dressed-up draggletails 
whom my father would not have taken as cooks into his 
kitchen, and my late husband would have done them honour 
if he had invited them in the goodness of his heart.” 

“Yes, he was fond of drink, he was fond of it, he did 
drink!” cried the commissariat clerk, gulping down his 
twelfth glass of vodka. 

“My late husband certainly had that weakness, and every 
one knows it,’ Katerina Ivanovna attacked him at once, 
“but he was a kind and honourable man, who loved and 
respected his family. The worst of it was his good nature 
made him trust all sorts of disreputable people, and he 
drank with fellows who were not worth the sole of his 
shoe. Would you believe it, Rodion Romanovitch, they 
found a gingerbread cock in his pocket; he was dead drunk, 
but he did not forget the children !” 

“A cock? Did you say a cock?” shouted the commis- 
sariat clerk. 

Katerina Ivanovna did not vouchsafe a reply. She 
sighed, lost in thought. 

“No doubt you think, like every one, that I was too 
severe with him,” she went on, addressing Raskolnikov. 


“But that’s not so! He respected me, he respected me very 
much! He was a kind-hearted man! And how sorry I 
was for him sometimes! He would sit in a corner and look 
at me, I used to feel so sorry for him, I used to want to be 
kind to him and then would think to myself: ‘be kind to him 
and he will drink again,’ it was only by severity that you 
could keep him within bounds.” 

“Yes, he used to get his hair pulled pretty often,” roared the 
commissariat clerk again, swallowing another glass of vodka, 

“Some fools would be the better for a good drubbing, as 
well as having their hair pulled. JI am not talking of my 
late husband now!” Katerina Ivanovna snapped at him. 

The flush. on her cheeks grew more and more marked, her 
chest heaved. In another minute she would have been ready 
to make a scene. Many of the visitors were sniggering, 
evidently delighted. They began poking the commissariat 
clerk and whispering something to him. They were evi- 
dently trying to egg him on. 

“Allow me to ask what are you alluding to,’ began the 
clerk, “that is to say, whose ... about whom... did you 
say just now.... But I don’t care! That’s nonsense! 
Widow! I forgive you. ... Pass!” 

And he took another drink of vodka. 

Raskolnikov sat in silence, listening with disgust. He 
only ate from politeness, just tasting the food that Katerina 
Ivanovna was continually putting on his plate, to avoid 
hurting her feelings. He watched Sonia intently. But Sonia 
became more and more anxious and distressed; she, too, 
foresaw that the dinner would not end peaceably, and saw 
with terror Katerina Ivanovna’s growing irritation. She 
knew that she, Sonia, was the chief reason for the ‘genteel’ 
ladies’ contemptuous treatment of Katerina Ivanovna’s in- 
vitation. She had heard from Amalia Ivanovna, that the 
mother was positively offended at the invitation and had 
asked the question: “how could she let her daughter sit 
down beside that young person?” Sonia had a feeling that 
Katerina Ivanovna had already heard this and an insult to 
Sonia meant more to Katerina Ivanovna than an insult to 
herself, her children, or her father. Sonia knew that 
Katerina Ivanovna would not be satisfied now, “till she had 


shown those draggletails that they were both...” To 
make matters worse some one passed Sonia, from the other 
end of the table, a plate with two hearts pierced with an 
arrow, cut out of black bread. Katerina Ivanovna flushed 
crimson and at once said aloud across the table that the man 
who sent it was “a drunken ass!” 

Amalia Ivanovna was foreseeing something amiss, and 
at the same time deeply wounded by Katerina Ivanovna’s 
haughtiness, and to restore the good-humour of the com- 
pany and raise herself in their esteem she began, apropos 
of nothing, telling a story about an acquaintance of hers 
“Karl from the chemist’s,” who was driving one night in a 
cab, and that “the cabman wanted him to kill, and Karl 
very much begged him not to kill, and wept and clasped 
hands, and frightened and from fear pierced his heart.” 
Though Katerina Ivanovna smiled, she observed at once that 
Amalia Ivanovna ought not to tell anecdotes in Russian; 
the latter was still more offended, and she retorted that her 
“vater aus Berlin was a very important man, and always 
went with his hands in pockets.” Katerina Ivanovna could 
not restrain herself and laughed so much that Amalia Iva- 
novna lost patience and could scarcely control herself. 

“Listen to the owl!” Katerina Ivanovna whispered at 
once, her good-humour almost restored, “she meant to say 
- he kept his hands in his pockets, but she said he put his 
hands in people’s pockets. (Cough-cough.) And have you 
noticed, Rodion Romanovitch, that all these Petersburg 
foreigners, the Germans especially, are all stupider than we! 
Can you fancy any one of us telling how ‘Kari from the 
chemist’s pierced his heart from fear’ and that the idiot 
instead of punishing the cabman, ‘clasped his hands and 
wept, and much begged.’ Ah, the fool! And you know 
she fancies it’s very touching and does not suspect how 
stupid she is! To my thinking that drunken commissariat 
clerk is a great deal cleverer, anyway one can see that he 
has addled his brains with drink, but you know, these 
foreigners are always so well behaved and serious. ... 
Look how she sits glaring! She is angry, ha-ha! (Cough- 

Regaining her good-humour, Katerina Ivanovna began at 


once telling Raskolnikov that when she had obtained her 
pension, she intended to open a school for the daughters of 
gentlemen in her native town T . This was the first 
time she had spoken to him of the project, and she launched 
out into the most alluring details. It suddenly appeared 
that Katerina Ivanovna had in her hands the very certificate 
of honour of which Marmeladov had spoken to Raskolnikov 
in the tavern, when he told him that Katerina Ivanovna, his 
wife, had danced the shawl dance before the governor and 
other great personages on leaving school. This certificate 
of honour was obviously intended now to prove Katerina 
Ivanovna’s right to open a boarding-school; but she had 
armed herself with it chiefly with the object of overwhelm- 
ing “those two stuck-up dragegletails” if they came to the 
dinner, and proving incontestably that Katerina Ivanovna 
was of the most noble, “she might even say aristocratic 
family, a colonel’s daughter and was far superior to certain 
adventuresses who have been so much to the fore of late.” 
The certificate of honour immediately passed into the hands 
of the drunken guests, and Katerina Ivanovna did not try 
to retain it, for it actually contained the statement en toutes 
lettres, that her father was of the rank of a major, and 
also a companion of an order, so that she really was almost 
the daughter of a colonel. 

Warming up, Katerina Ivanovna proceeded to enlarge on 
the peaceful and happy life they would lead in T , on 
the gymnasium teachers whom she would engage to give 
lessons in her boarding-school, on a most respectable old 
Frenchman, one Mangot, who had taught Katerina Iva- 
novna herself in old days and was still living in T , and 
would no doubt teach in her school on moderate terms. 
Next she spoke of Sonia who would go with her to T 
and help her in all her plans. At this some one at the 
further end of the table gave a sudden guffaw. 

Though Katerina Ivanovna tried to appear to be dis- 
dainfully unaware of it, she raised her voice and began at 
once speaking with conviction of Sonia’s undoubted ability 
to assist her, of “her gentleness, patience, devotion, gener- 
osity and good education,” tapping Sonia on the cheek and 
kissing her warmly twice. Sonia flushed crimson, and 



Katerina Ivanovna suddenly burst into tears, immediately 
observing that she was “nervous and silly, that she was too 
much upset, that it was time to finish, and as the dinner 
was over, it was time to hand round the tea.” 

At that moment, Amalia Ivanovna, deeply aggrieved at 
taking no part in the conversation, and not being listened to, 
made one last effort, and with secret misgivings ventured 
on an exceedingly deep and weighty observation, that “in 
the future boarding-school she would have to pay particular 
attention to die Wdsche, and that there certainly must be a 
good dame to look after the linen, and secondly that the 
young ladies must not novels at night read.” 

Katerina Ivanovna, who certainly was upset and very 
tired, as well as heartily sick of the dinner, at once cut 
short Amalia Ivanovna, saying “she knew nothing about it 
and was talking nonsense, that it was the business of the 
laundry maid, and not of the directress of a high-class 
boarding-school to look after die Wische, and as for novel 
reading, that was simply rudeness, and she begged her to be 
silent.’ Amalia Ivanovna fired up and getting angry ob- 
served that she only “meant her good,” and that “she had 
meant her very good,” and that “it was long since she had 
paid her gold for the lodgings.” 

Katerina Ivanovna at once, “set her down,” saying, that 
it was a lie to say she wished her good, because only yester- 
day when her dead husband was lying on the table, she had 
worried her about the lodgings. To this Amalia Ivanovna 
very appropriately observed that she had invited those 
ladies, but “those ladies had not come, because those ladies 
are ladies and cannot come to a lady who is not a lady.” 
Katerina Ivanovna at once pointed out to her, that as she 
was a slut she could not judge what made one really a lady. 
Amalia Ivanovna at once declared that her “vater aus 
Berlin was a very, very important man, and both hands in 
pockets went, and always used to say: poof! poof!” and she 
leapt up from the table to represent her father, sticking her 
hands in her pockets, puffing her cheeks, and uttering vague 
sounds resembling “poof! poof!” amid loud laughter from 
all the lodgers, who purposely encouraged Amalia Iva- 
novna, hoping for a fight. 


But this was too much for Katerina Ivanovna, and she at 
once declared, so that all could hear, that Amalia Ivanovna 
probably never had a father, but was simply a drunken 
Petersburg Finn, and had certainly once been a cook and 
probably something worse. Amalia Ivanovna turned as red 
as a lobster and squealed that perhaps Katerina Ivanovna 
never had a father, “but she had a vater aus Berlin and 
that he wore a long coat and always said poof-poof-poof !” 

Katerina Ivanovna observed contemptuously that all knew 
what her family was and that on that very certificate of 
honour it was stated in print that her father was a colonel, 
while Amalia Ivanovna’s father—if she really had one— 
was probably some Finnish milkman, but that probably she 
never had a father at all, since it was still uncertain 
whether her name was Amalia Ivanovna or Amalia Lud- 

At this Amalia Ivanovna, lashed to fury, struck the table 
with her fist, and shrieked that she was Amalia Ivanovna, 
and not Ludwigovna, “that her vater was named Johann 
and that he was a burgomeister, and that Katerina Iva- 
novna’s vater was quite never a burgomeister.” Katerina 
Ivanovna rose from her chair, and with a stern and ap- 
parently calm voice (though she was pale and her chest was 
heaving) observed that “if she dared for one moment to 
set her contemptible wretch of a father on a level with her 
papa, she, Katerina Ivanovna, would tear her cap off her 
head and trample it under foot.” Amalia Ivanovna ran 
about the room, shouting at the top of her voice, that she 
was mistress of the house and that Katerina Ivanovna 
should leave the lodgings that minute; then she rushed for 
some reason to collect the \silver spoons from the table.’ 
There was a great outcry and uproar, the children began 
crying. Sonia ran to restrain Katerina Ivanovna, but when 
Amalia Ivanovna shouted something about “the yellow 
ticket,” Katerina Ivanovna pushed Sonia away, and rushed 
at the landlady to carry out her threat. 

At that minute the door opened, and Pyotr Petrovitch 
Luzhin appeared on the threshold. He stood scanning the 
party with severe and vigilant eyes. Katerina Ivanovna 
rushed to him. 


) Saee PETROVITCH,” she cried, “protect me 
- .. you at least! Make this foolish woman under- 
stand that she can’t behave like this to a lady in mis- 
fortune ... that there is a law for such things. ... I'll 
go to the governor-general himself... . She shall answer 
for it.... Remembering my father’s hospitality protect 
these orphans.” Pa 

“Allow me, madam.... Allow me.” Pyotr Petrovitch 
waved her off. “Your papa as you are well aware I had 
not the honour of knowing” (some one laughed aloud) 
“and I do not intend to take part in your everlasting 
squabbles with Amalia Ivanovna....I have come here 
to speak of my own affairs . . . and I want to have a word 
with your stepdaughter, Sofya ... Ivanovna, I think it is? 
Allow me to pass.” 

Pyotr Petrovitch, edging by her, went to the opposite 
corner where Sonia was. 

Katerina Ivanovna remained standing where she was, as 
though thunderstruck. She could not understand how 
Pyotr Petrovitch could deny having enjoyed her father’s 
hospitality. Though she had invented it herself, she be- 
lieved in it firmly by this time. She was struck too by the 
businesslike, dry and even contemptuously menacing tone 
of Pyotr Petrovitch. All the clamour gradually died away 
at his entrance. Not only was this “serious business man” 
strikingly incongruous with the rest of the party, but it was 
evident, too, that he had come upon some matter of conse- 
quence, that some exceptional cause must have brought him 
and that therefore something was going to happen. Ras- 
kolnikov, standing beside Sonia, moved aside to let him 
pass; Pyotr Petrovitch did not seem to notice him. A 
minute later Lebeziatnikov, too, appeared in the doorway; 
he did not come in, but stood still, listening with marked 
interest, almost wonder, and seemed for a time perplexed. 



“Excuse me for possibly interrupting you, but it’s a mat- 
ter of some importance,” Pyotr Petrovitch observed, ad- 
dressing the company generally. “I am glad indeed to find 
other persons present. Amalia Ivanovna, I humbly beg 
you as mistress of the house to pay careful attention to what 
I have to say to Sofya Ivanovna. Sofya Ivanovna,” he 
went on addressing Sonia who was very much surprised 
and already alarmed, “immediately after your visit I found 
that a hundred-rouble note was missing from my table, in 
the room of my friend Mr. Lebeziatnikov. If in any way 
whatever you know and will tell us where it is now, I 
assure you on my word of honour and call all present to 
witness that the matter shall end there. In the opposite 
case I shall be compelled to have recourse to very serious 
measures and then... you must blame yourself.” 

Complete silence reigned in the room. ' Even the crying 
children were still. Sonia stood deadly pale, staring at 
Luzhin and unable to say a word. She seemed not to under- 
stand. Some seconds passed. 

“Well, how is it to be then?” asked Luzhin, looking in- 
tently at her. 

“I don't know. ...I know nothing about it,’ Sonia 
articulated faintly at last. 

“No, you know nothing?” Luzhin repeated and again he 
paused for some seconds. “Think a moment, mademoiselle,” 
he began severely, but still, as it were, admonishing her. 
“Reflect, I am prepared to give you time for consideration. 
Kindly observe this: if I were not so entirely convinced I 
should not, you may be sure, with my experience venture 
to accuse you so directly. Seeing that for such direct 
accusation before witnesses, if false or even mistaken, I 
should myself in a certain sense be made responsible. I am 
aware of that. This morning I changed for my own pur- 
poses several five per cent. securities for the sum of ap- 
proximately three thousand roubles. The account is noted 
down in my pocket-book. On my return home I proceeded 
to count the money,—as Mr. Lebeziatnikov will bear wit- 
ness—and after counting two thousand three hundred 
roubles I put the rest in my pocket-book in my coat pocket. 
About five hundred roubles remained on the table and 



among them three notes of a hundred roubles each. At 
that moment you entered (at my invitation)—and all the 
time you were present you were exceedingly embarrassed; 
so that three times you jumped up in the middle of the 
conversation and tried to make off. Mr. Lebeziatnikov can 
bear witness to this. You yourself, mademoiselle, probably 
will not refuse to confirm my statement that I invited you 
through Mr. Lebeziatnikov, solely in order to discuss with 
you the hopeless and destitute position of your relative, 
Katerina Ivanovna (whose dinner I was unable to attend), 
and the advisability of getting up something of the nature of 
a subscription, lottery or the like, for her benefit. You 
thanked me and even shed tears. I describe all this as it 
took place, primarily to recall it to your mind and secondly 
to show you that not the slightest detail has escaped my 
recollection. Then I took a ten rouble note from the table 
and handed it to you by way of first instalment on my part 
for the benefit of your relative. Mr. Lebeziatnikov saw all 
this. Then I accompanied you to the door,—you being still 
in the same state of embarrassment—after which, being 
left alone with Mr. Lebeziatnikov I talked to him for ten 
minutes,—then Mr. Lebeziatnikov went out and I returned 
to the table with the money lying on it, intending to count 
it and put it aside, as I proposed doing before. To my 
surprise one hundred-rouble note had disappeared. Kindly 
consider the position. Mr. Lebeziatnikov I cannot suspect. 
I am ashamed to allude to such a supposition. I cannot have 
made a mistake in my reckoning, for the minute before 
your entrance I had finished my accounts and found the 
total correct. You will admit that recollecting your embar- 
rassment, your eagerness to get away and the fact that you 
kept your hands for some time on the table, and taking into 
consideration your social position and the habits associated 
with it, I was, so to say, with horror and positively against 
my will, compelled to entertain a suspicion—a cruel, but 
justifiable suspicion! I will add further and repeat that in 
spite of my positive conviction, I realise that I run a certain 
risk in making this accusation, but as you see, I could not 
let it pass. I have taken action and I will tell you why: 
solely, madam, solely, owing to your black ingratitude! 


Why! I invite you for the benefit of your destitute relative, 
I present you with my donation of ten roubles and you, on 
the spot, repay me for all that with such an action. It is 
too bad! You need a lesson. Reflect! Moreover, like a 
true friend I beg you—and you could have no better friend 
at this moment—think what you are. doing, otherwise I 
shall be immovable! Well, what do you say?” 

“T have taken nothing,” Sonia whispered in terror, “you 
gave me ten roubles, here it is, take it.” 

Sonia pulled her handkerchief out of her pocket, untied a 
corner of it, took out the ten rouble note and gave it to 

“And the hundred roubles you do not confess to taking?” 
he insisted reproachfully, not taking the note. 

Sonia looked about her. All were looking at her with 
such awful, stern, ironical, hostile eyes. She looked at 
Raskolnikov . .. he stood against the wall, with his arms 
crossed, looking at her with glowing eyes. 

“Good God!” broke from Sonia. 

“Amalia Ivanovna, we shall have to send word to the 
police and therefore } humbly beg you meanwhile to send 
for the house porter,” Luzhin said softly and even kindly. 

“Gott der barmherzige! I knew she was the thief,” cried 
Amalia Ivanovna, throwing up her hands. 

“You knew it?” Luzhin caught her up, “then I suppose 
you had some reason before this for thinking so. I beg 
you, worthy Amalia Ivanovna, to remember your. words 
which have been uttered before witnesses.” 

There was a buzz of loud conversation on all sides. Ail 
were in movement. 

“What!” cried Katerina Ivanovna, suddenly realising the 
position, and she rushed at Luzhin. “What! You accuse 
her of stealing? Sonia? Ah, the wretches, the wretches!’ 

And running to Sonia she flung her wasted arms round 
her and held her as in a vice. 

“Sonia! how dared you take ten roubles from him? 
_ Foolish girl! Give it to me! Give me the ten roubles at 
once—here !” 

And snatching the note from Sonia, Katerina Ivanovna 
crumpled it up and flung it straight into Luzhin’s face. It 


hit him in the eye and fell on the ground. Amalia Iva- 
novna hastened to pick it up. Pyotr Petrovitch lost his 

“Hold that mad woman!” he shouted. 

At that moment several other persons, besides Lebe- 
ziatnikov appeared in the doorway, among them the two 
ladies. : 

“What! Mad? Am I mad? Idiot!” shrieked Katerina 
Ivanovna. “You are an idiot yourself, pettifogging lawyer, 
base man! Sonia, Sonia take his money! Sonia a thief! 
Why, she’d give away her last penny!” and Katerina Iva- 
novna broke into hysterical laughter. “Did you ever see 
such an idiot?” she turned from side to side. “And you 
too?” she suddenly saw the landlady, “and you too, sausage 
eater, you declare that she is a thief, you trashy Prussian 
hen’s leg in a crinoline! She hasn’t been out of this room: 
she came straight from you, you wretch, and sat down 
beside me, every one saw her. She sat here, by Rodion 
Romanovitch. Search her! Since she’s not left the room, 
the money would have to be on her! Search her, search 
her! But if you don’t find it, then, excuse me, my dear 
fellow, you'll answer for it! Tl go to our Sovereign, to our 
Sovereign, to our gracious Tsar himself, and throw myself 
at his feet, to-day, this minute! I’m alone in the world! 
They would let me in! Do you think they wouldn’t? 
You’re wrong, I will get in! I will get in! You reckoned 
on her meekness! Yourelied upon that! But I am not so 
submissive, let me tell you! You’re gone too far yourself! 
Search her, search her!” 

And Katerina Ivanovna in a frenzy shook Luzhin and 
dragged him towards Sonia. 

“T am ready, I'll be responsible . . . but calm yourself, 
madam, calm yourself. I see that you are not so submissive! 
... Well, well, but as to that ...” Luzhin muttered, “that 
ought to be before the police . . . though indeed there are 
witnesses enough as it is.... I am ready. ... But in any 
case it’s difficult for a man . . . on account of her sex.... 
But with the help of Amalia Ivanovna... though, of 
course, it’s not the way to do things. . . . How is it to be 
done ?” 


“As you will! Let any one who likes search her!” cried 
Katerina Ivanovna, “Sonia, turn out your pockets! See! 
Look, monster, the pocket is empty, here was her handker- 
chief! Here is the other pocket, look! D’you see, d’you 
see ?” 

And Katerina Ivanovna turned—or rather snatched—both 
pockets inside out. But from the right pocket a piece of 
paper flew out describing a parabola in the air fell at 
Luzhin’s feet. Every one saw it, several cried out. Pyotr 
Petrovitch stooped down, picked up the paper in two fingers, 
lifted it where all could see it and opened it. It was a 
hundred-rouble not folded in eight. Pyotr Petrovitch held 
up the note showing it to every one. 

“Thief! Out of my lodging. Police, police!” yelled 
Amalia Ivanovna. “They must to Siberia be sent! Away!” 

Exclamations arose on all sides. Raskolnikov was silent, 
keeping his eyes fixed on Sonia, except for an occasional 
rapid glance at Luzhin. Sonia stood still, as though uncon- 
scious. She was hardly able to feel surprise. Suddenly the 
colour rushed to her cheeks; she uttered a cry and hid her 
face in her hands. 

“No, it wasn’t I! I didn’t take it! I know nothing about 
it,’ she cried with a heartrending wail, and she ran to 
Katerina Ivanovna, who clasped her tightly in her arms, as 
though she would shelter her from all the world. 

“Sonia! Sonia! I don’t believe it! You see, I don’t 
believe it!’ she cried in the face of the obvious fact, swaying 
her to and fro in her arms like a baby, kissing her face con- 
tinually, then snatching at her hands and kissing them, too, 
“you took it! How stupid these people are! Ohdear! You 
are fools, fools,” she cried, addressing the whole room, “you 
don’t know, you don’t know what a heart she has, what a 
girl she is! She take it, she? She’d sell her last rag, she’d 
go barefoot to help you if you needed it, that’s what she 
is! She has the yellow passport because my children were 
starving, she sold herself for us! Ah, husband, husband! 
Do you see? Do you see? What a memorial dinner for 
you! Merciful heavens! Defend her, why are you all stand- 
ing still? Rodion Romanovitch, why don’t you stand up for 
her? Do you believe it, too? You are not worth her little 

finger, all of you together! Good God! Defend her now, 

at least!” 

The wail of the poor, consumptive, helpless woman seemed 
to produce a great effect on her audience. The agonised, 
wasted, consumptive face, the parched blood-stained lips, 
the hoarse voice, the tears unrestrained as a child’s, the 
trustful, childish and yet despairing prayer for help were so 
piteous that every one seemed to feel for her. Pyotr Petro- 
vitch at any rate was at once moved to compassion. 

“Madam, madam, this incident does not reflect upon you!” 
he cried impressively, “no one would take upon himself to 
accuse you of being an instigator or even an accomplice in 
it, especially as you have proved her guilt by turning out hér 
pockets, showing that you had no previous idea of it. I am 
most ready, most ready to show compassion, if poverty, so 
to speak drove Sofya Semyonovna to it, but why did you 
refuse to confess, mademoiselle? Were you afraid of the 
disgrace? The first step? You lost your head, perhaps? 
One can quite understand it. ... But how could you have 
lowered yourself to such an action? Gentlemen,” he ad- 
dressed the whole company, “gentlemen! Compassionating 
and so to say commiserating these people, I am ready to over- 
look it even now in spite of the personal insult lavished 
upon me! And may this disgrace be a lesson to you for the 
‘future,’ he said, addressing Sonia, “and I will carry the mat- 
ter no further. Enough!’ 

Pyotr Petrovitch stole a glance at Raskolnikov. Their 
eyes met, and the fire in Raskolnikov’s seemed ready to 
reduce him to ashes. Meanwhile Katerina Ivanovna ap- 
parently heard nothing. She was kissing and hugging Sonia 
like a madwoman. The children, too, were embracing Sonia 
on all sides, and Polenka,—though she did not fully under- 
stand what was wrong,—was drowned in tears and shaking 
with sobs, as she hid her pretty little face swollen with weep- 
ing, on Sonia’s shoulder. 

“How vile!” a loud voice cried suddenly in the doorway. 

Pyotr Petrovitch looked round quickly. 

“What vileness!” Lebziatnikov repeated, staring him 
straight in the face. . 

Pyotr Petrovitch gave a positive start—all noticed it 


and recalled it afterwards. Lebeziatnikov strode into the 

“And you dared to call me as witness?” he said, going up 
to Pyotr Petrovitch. 

“What do you mean? What are you talking about?” 
muttered Luzhin. 

“I mean that you... are a slanderer, that’s what my 
words mean!” Lebeziatnikov said hotly, looking sternly at 
him with his shortsighted eyes. 

He was extremely angry. Raskolnikov gazed intently at 
him, as though seizing and weighing each word. Again there 
was a silence. Pyotr Petrovitch indeed seemed almost dumb- 
founded for the first moment. 

“If you mean that for me,...” he began, stammering, 
“But what’s the matter with you? Are you out of your 
mind ?” 

“Tm in my mind, but you are a scoundrel! Ah, how vile! 
I have heard everything. I kept waiting on purpose to 
understand it, for I must own even now it is not quite logical. 
. - « What you have done it all for I can’t understand.” 

“Why, what have I done then? Give over talking in your 
nonsensical riddles! Or maybe you are drunk!” 

“You may be a drunkard perhaps, vile man, but I am not! 
I never touch vodka, for it’s against my convictions. Would 
you believe it, he, he himself, with his own hands gave Sofya 
Semyonovna that hundred-rouble note—I saw it, I was a 
witness, I'll take my oath! He did it, he!” repeated Lebeziat- 
nikov, addressing all. 

“Are you crazy, milksop?”’ squealed Luzhin. “She is her- 
self before you,—she herself here declared just now before 
every one that I gave her only ten roubles. How could I 
have given it to her?” 

“I saw it, I saw it,’ Lebeziatnikov repeated, “and though 
it is against my principles, I am ready this very minute to 
take any oath you like before the court, for I saw how you 
slipped it in her pocket. Only like a fool I thought you did 
it out of kindness! When you were saying good-bye to her 
at the door, while you held her hand in one hand, with the 
other, the left, you slipped the note into her pocket. I saw 
it, I saw it!” 


Luzhin turned pale. 

“What lies!” he cried impudently, “why, how could you, 
standing by the window, see the note! You fancied it with 
your shortsighted eyes. You are raving!” 

“No, I didn’t fancy it. And though I was standing some 
way off, I saw it all. And though it certainly would be hard 
to distinguish a note from the window,—that’s true—I knew 
for certain that it was a hundred-rouble note, because, when 
you were going to give Sofya Semyonovna ten roubles, you 
took up from the table a hundred-rouble note (I saw it 
because I was standing near then, and an idea struck me at 
once, so that I did not forget you had it in your hand). You 
folded it and kept it in your hand all the time. I didn’t think 
of it again until, when you were getting up, you changed it 
from your right hand to your left and nearly dropped it! I 
noticed it because the same idea struck me again, that you 
meant to do her a kindness without my seeing. You can 
fancy how I watched you and I saw how you succeeded in 
slipping it into her pocket. I saw it, I saw it, I'll take my 

Lebeziatnikov was almost breathless. Exclamations arose 
on all hands, chiefly expressive of wonder, but some were 
menacing in tone. They all crowded round Pyotr Petrovitch. 
Katerina Ivanovna flew to Lebeziatnikov. 

“I was mistaken in you! Protect her! You are the 
only one to take her part! She is an orphan, God has sent 
you!” , 

Katerina Ivanovna, hardly knowing what she was doing, 
sank on her knees before him. 

“A pack of nonsense!” yelled Luzhin, roused to fury, “it’s 
all nonsense you’ve been talking! ‘An idea struck you, you 
didn’t think, you noticed’—what does it amount to? So lI 
gave it to her on the sly on purpose? What for? With 
what object? What have I to do with this. .. ?” 

“What for? That’s what I can’t understand, but that 
what I am telling you is the fact, that’s certain! So far from 
my being mistaken, you infamous, criminal man, I remember 
how, on account of it, a question occurred to me at once, just 
when I was thanking you and pressing your hand. What 
made you put it secretly in her pocket? Why you did it 


secretly, I mean? Could it be simply to conceal it from me, 
knowing that my convictions are opposed to yours and that 
I do not approve of private benevolence, which effects no 
radical cure. Well, I decided that you really were ashamed 
of giving such a large sum before me. Perhaps, too, I 
thought, he wants to give her a surprise, when she finds a 
whole hundred-rouble note in her pocket. (For I know, some 
benevolent people are very fond of decking out their chari- 
table actions in that way.) Then the idea struck me, too, 
that you wanted to test her, to see whether, when she found 
it, she would come to thank you. Then, too, that you wanted 
to avoid thanks and that, as the saying is, your right hand 
should not know ... something of that sort, in fact. I 
thought of so many possibilities that I put off considering it, 
but still thought it indelicate to show you I knew your 
secret. But another idea struck me again that Sofya Semyo- 
novna might easily lose the money before she noticed it, that 
was why I decided to come in here to call her out of the 
room and to tell her that you put a hundred roubles in her 
pocket. But on my way I went first to Madame Kobilatni- 
kov’s to take them the ‘General Treatise on the Positive 
Method’ and especially to recommend Piderit’s article (and 
also Wagner’s); then I come on here and what a state of 
things I find! Now could I, could I, have all these ideas and 
reflections, if I had not seen you put the hundred-rouble 
note in her pocket?” 

When Lebeziatnikov finished his long-winded harangue 
with the logical deduction at the end, he was quite tired, and 
the perspiration streamed from his face. He could not, alas, 
even express himself correctly in Russian, though he knew 
no other language, so that he was quite exhausted, almost 
emaciated after this heroic exploit. But his speech pro- 
duced a powerful effect. He had spoken with such vehe- 
mence, with such conviction that every one obviously be- 
lieved him. Pyotr Petrovitch felt that things were going 
badly with him. 

“What is it to do with me if silly ideas did occur to you?’ 
he shouted, “that’s no evidence. You may have dreamt it, 
that’s all! And I tell you, you are lying, sir. You are lying 
and slandering from some spite against me, simply from 


pique, because I did not agree with your freethinking, godless, 
social propositions !” 

But this retort did not benefit Pyotr Petrovitch. Murmurs 
of disapproval were heard on all sides. 

“Ah, that’s your line now, is it!” cried Lebeziatnikov, 
“that’s nonsense! Call the police and I'll take my oath! 
There’s only one thing I can’t understand: what made him 
risk such a contemptible action. Oh, pitiful, despicable man !” 

“T can explain why he risked such an action, and if neces- 
sary, I, too, will swear to it,’ Raskolnikov said at last in a 
firm voice, and he stepped forward. 

He appeared to be firm and composed. Every one felt 
clearly from the very look of him that he really knew abofit 
it and that the mystery would be solved. 

“Now I can explain it all to myself,” said Raskolnikov, 
addressing Lebeziatnikov. “From the very beginning of the 
business, I suspected that there was some scoundrelly in- 
trigue at the bottom of it. I began to suspect it from some 
special circumstances known to me only, which I will explain 
at once to every one: they account for everything. Your 
valuable evidence has finally made everything clear to me. I 
beg all, all to listen. This gentleman (he pointed to Luzhin) 
was recently engaged to be married to a young lady—my 
sister, Avdotya Romanovna Raskolnikov. But coming to 
-Petersburg he quarrelled with me, the day before yesterday, 
at our first meeting and I drove him out of my room—I 
have two witnesses to prove it.- He is a very spiteful man. 
. » . The day before yesterday I did not know that he was 
staying here, in your room, and that consequently on the 
very day we quarrelled—the day before yesterday—he saw 
me give Katerina Ivanovna some money for the funeral, as 
a friend of the late Mr. Marmeladov. He at once wrote a 
note to my mother and informed her that I had given away 
all my money, not to Katerina Ivanovna, but to Sofya 
Semyonovna, and referred in a most contemptible way to 
the .. . character of Sofya Semyonovna, that is, hinted at 
the character of my attitude to Sofya Semyonovna. All this 
you understand was with the object of dividing me from my 
mother and sister, by insinuating that I was squandering on 
unworthy objects the money which they had sent me and 


which was all they had. Yesterday evening, before my mother 
and sister and in his presence, I declared that I had given the 
money to Katerina Ivanovna for the funeral and not to 
Sofya Semyonovna and that I had no acquaintance with 
Sofya Semyonovna and had never seen her before, indeed. 
At the same time I added that he, Pyotr Petrovitch Luzhin, 
with all his virtues was not worth Sofya Semyonovna’s little 
finger, though he spoke so ill of her. To his question—would 
I let Sofya Semyonovna sit down beside my sister, I 
answered that I had already done so that day. Irritated that 
my mother and sister were unwilling to quarrel with me at 
his insinuations, he gradually began being unpardonably 
rude to them. A final rupture took place and he was turned 
out of the house. All this happened yesterday evening. Now 
I beg your special attention: consider: if he had now sucs 
ceeded in proving that Sofya Semyonovna was a thief, he 
would have shown to my mother and sister that he was almost 
right in his suspicions, that he had reason to be angry at my 
putting my sister on a level with Sofya Semyonovna, that, 
in attacking me, he was protecting and preserving the honour 
of my sister, his betrothed. In fact he might even, through 
all this, have been able to estrange me from my family, and 
no doubt he hoped to be restored to favour with them; to say 
nothing of revenging himself on me personally, for he has 
grounds for supposing that the honour and happiness of 
Sofya Semyonovna are very precious to me. That was what 
he was working for! That’s how I understand it. That’s 
the whole reason for it and there can be no other!” 

It was like this, or somewhat like this that Raskolnikov 
wound up his speech which was followed very attentively, 
though often interrupted by exclamations from his audience. 
But in spite of interruptions he spoke clearly, calmly, exactly, 
firmly. His decisive voice, his tone of conviction and his 
stern face made a great impression on every one. 

“Yes, yes, that’s it,’ Lebeziatnikov assented gleefully, 
“that must be, for he asked me, as soon as Sofya Semyo< 
novna came into our room, whether you were here, whether 
I had seen you among Katerina Ivanovna’s guests. He called 
me aside to the window and asked me in secret. It was es- 
sential for him that you should be here! That’s it, that’s it!” 


Luzhin smiled contemptuously and did not speak. But he 
was very pale. He seemed to be deliberating on some means 
of escape. Perhaps he would have been glad to give up 
everything and get away, but at the moment this was 
scarcely possible. It would have implied admitting the truth 
of the accusations brought against him. Moreover the com- 
pany, which had already been excited by drink, was now too 
much stirred to allow it. The commissariat clerk, though 
indeed he had not grasped the whole position, was shouting 
louder than any one and was making some suggestions very 
unpleasant to Luzhin. But not all those present were 
drunk; lodgers came in from all the rooms. The three 
Poles were tremendously excited and were continually shout’ 
ing at him: “The pan is a lajdak!” and muttering threats 
in Polish. 

Sonia had been listening with strained attention, though 

she too seemed unable to grasp it all; she seemed as though 
she had just returned to consciousness. She did not take her 
eyes off Raskolnikov, feeling that all her safety lay in him. 
Katerina Ivanovna breathed hard and painfully and seemed 
fearfully exhausted. Amalia Ivanovna stood looking more 
stupid than any one, with her mouth wide open, unable to 
make out what had happened. She only saw that Pyotr 
Petrovitch had somehow come to grief. 
. Raskolnikov was attempting to speak again, but they did 
not let him. Every one was crowding round Luzhin with 
threats and shouts of abuse. But Pyotr Petrovitch was not 
intimidated. Seeing that his accusation of Sonia had com- 
pletely failed, he had recourse to insolence: 

“Allow me, gentlemen, allow me! Don’t squeeze, let me 
pass!” he said, making his way through the crowd. “And 
no threats if you please! I assure you it will be useless, you 
will gain nothing by it. On the contrary, you'll have to 
answer, gentlemen, for violently obstructing the course of 
justice. The thief has been more than unmasked, and I 
shall prosecute. Our judges are not so blind and... not 
so drunk, and will not believe the testimony of two notorious 
infidels, agitators, and atheists, who accuse me from motives 
of personal revenge which they are foolish enough to admit. 
- - - Yes, allow me to pass!” 


“Don’t let me find a trace of you in my room! Kindly 
leave at once, and everything is at an end between us! When 
I think of the trouble I’ve been taking, the way I’ve been 
expounding ... all this fortnight!” 

“T told you myself to-day that I was going, when you tried 
to keep me; now I will simply add that you are a fool. I 
advise you to see a doctor for your brains and your short 
sight. Let me pass, gentlemen!” 

He forced his way through. But the commissariat clerk 
was unwilling to let him off so easily: he picked up a 
glass from the table, brandished it in the air and flung it 
at Pyotr Petrovitch; but the glass flew straight at Amalia 

She screamed, and the clerk, overbalancing, fell heavily 
under the table. Pyotr Petrovitch made his way to his 
room and half an hour later had left the house. Sonia, timid 
by nature, had felt before that day that she could be ill- 
treated more easily than any one, and that she could be 
wronged with impunity. Yet till that moment she had 
fancied that she might escape misfortune by care, gentleness 
and submissiveness before every one. Her disappointment 
was too great. She could, of course, bear with patience and 
almost without murmur anything, even this. But for the 
first minute she felt it too bitter. In spite of her triumph 
and her justification—when her first terror and stupefaction 
had passed and she could understand it all clearly—the feel- 
ing of her helplessness and of the wrong done to her made 
her heart throb with anguish and she was overcome with 
hysterical weeping. At last, unable to bear any more, she 
rushed out of the room and ran home, almost immediately 
after Luzhin’s departure. When amidst loud laughter the 
glass flew at Amalia Ivanovna, it was more than the land- 
lady could endure. With a shriek she rushed like a fury at 
Katerina Ivanovna, considering her to blame for everything. 

“Out of my lodgings! At once! Quick march!” 

And with these words she began snatching up everything 
she could lay her hands on that belonged to Katerina Iva- 
novna, and throwing it on the floor. Katerina Ivanovna, 
pale, almost fainting, and gasping for breath, jumped up from 
the bed where she had sunk in exhaustion and darted at 


Amalia Ivanovna. But the battle was too unequal: the land- 
lady waved her away like a feather. 

“What! As though that godless calumny was not enough 
—this vile creature attacks me! What! On the day of my 
husband’s funeral I am turned out of my lodging! After 
eating my bread and salt she turns me into the street, with 
my orphans! Where am I to go?” wailed the poor woman, 
sobbing and gasping. “Good God!” she cried with flashing 
eyes, “is there no justice upon earth? Whom should you 
protect if not us orphans? We shall see! There is law and 
justice on earth, there is, I will find it! Wait a bit, godless 
creature! Polenka, stay with the children, I'll come back. 
Wait for me, if you have to wait in the street. We will seé 
whether there is justice on earth!” 

And throwing over her head that green shawl which 
Marmeladov had mentioned to Raskolnikov, Katerina Iva- 
novna squeezed her way through the disorderly and drunken 
crowd of lodgers who still filled the room, and, wailing and 
tearful, she ran into the street—with a vague intention of 
going at once somewhere to find justice. Polenka with the 
two little ones in her arms crouched, terrified, on the trunk 
in the corner of the room, where she waited trembling for 
her mother to come back. Amalia Ivanovna raged about the 
room, shrieking, lamenting and throwing everything she 
came across on the floor. The lodgers talked incoherently, 
some commented to the best of their ability on what had 
happened, others quarrelled and swore at one another, while 
others struck up a song. ... 

“Now it’s time for me to go,” thought Raskolnikov. “Well, 
Sofya Semyonovna, we shall see what you'll say now!” 

And he set off in the direction of Sonia’s lodgings. 


pion of Sonia against Luzhin, although he had such a 

load of horror and anguish in his own heart. But 
having gone through so much in the morning, he found a 
sort of rel